


The Bridge of Tears

by Unquiet_Grave



Series: The Outsider [2]
Category: Far Cry (Video Games), Far Cry 5
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Eventual Smut, Explicit Language, F/M, Female Anti-Hero, HORSES because the game should've had horses wtf, Humor, Porn With Plot, Reckless oregano use, Sex Pollen, Slow Burn, Sorry john, Totally not setting up Deputy and Joseph, Vaginal Sex, Voyeurism, mildly rough sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-03
Updated: 2018-07-03
Packaged: 2019-06-01 19:46:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 24,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15150506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unquiet_Grave/pseuds/Unquiet_Grave
Summary: “Sorry,” she told him. “But I don't trust you. Can still remember what those bodies looked like up there, swingin in the breeze. Your men had that entire family murdered. I doubt even Dr. Phil could help ya'll with your fuckin problems.”He moaned again in response, eyes rolled back into his handsome head. She examined the bump, but it only looked like a mild concussion. He would be awake soon: nauseated, sore, but alive. Lucky bastard. She would make him regret it. Mama and Papa didn't raise no softy.Once he woke up, she would take her time with him, and get the answers she needed. She'd learned a thing or two about interrogations. Picking up a square vial of bliss oil from the shelf, she sat in a corner and patiently waited for him to wake up.





	1. Mutual Fuckup

**Author's Note:**

> Part 2 of a 3 part series I'm hoping to write!
> 
> Skip to Chapter 5 for the smut.
> 
> (Chapter playlist for your ear-pleasure: "R U Mine?" Arctic Monkeys, "Devil's Backbone" The Civil Wars, "Fuck Up" Sarah Shook & The Disarmers, "Best of Luck" Nickel Creek)

_Oh Lord, Oh Lord, what have I done?_

_I’ve fallen in love with a man on the run_  
_Oh Lord, Oh Lord, I’m begging you please_  
_Don’t take that sinner from me_  
_Oh don’t take that sinner from me_

_Oh Lord, Oh Lord, what do I do?_  
_I’ve fallen for someone who’s nothing like you_  
_He’s raised on the edge of the devil’s backbone_  
_Oh I just wanna take him home_  
_Oh I just wanna take him home_

_Oh Lord, Oh Lord, he’s somewhere between_  
_A hangman’s knot, and three mouths to feed_  
_There wasn’t a wrong or a right he could choose_  
_He did what he had to do_  
_Oh he did what he had to do_

_Give me the burden, give me the blame_  
_I’ll shoulder the load, and I’ll swallow the shame_  
_Give me the burden, give me the blame_  
_How many, how many Hail Mary's is it gonna take?_

_Don’t care if he’s guilty, don’t care if he’s not_  
_He’s good and he’s bad and he’s all that I’ve got_  
_Oh Lord, Oh Lord, I’m begging you please_  
_Don’t take that sinner from me_  
_Oh don’t take that sinner from me_

-"Devil's Backbone", The Civil Wars

* * *

 

It was raining tinsel.

Hundreds of ribbons of tinsel. The metallic strings fluttered down from the awning, drifting through the heated air in a silvery downpour. Silver...and orange. They fell and struck patches of flame, shrinking into black lines, fading into smoke. The inferno burned so hot, some strands melted before they could even hit the ground.

Dazed, knocked flat on her back, Deputy stared between her knees at the spectacle _,_ thinking distantly, _Told Sharky this was a bad idea. Christmas in July, my ass._

Roiling heat beat down on her. She watched with a dreamy smile as the awning and porch burned with a low roar, pieces of wood and plastic falling away in chunks. Farther out, in the bombarded streets of Fall's End, both the townsfolk and Peggies dove for cover. An eerie silence pressed in. For a moment, she wondered if she'd gone deaf. It was kinda nice. A change in pace from the explosions, the gunfire. The screaming.

Didn't change the fact she would have one hell of a hangover, if she lived.

Hurk's voice broke through the silence: “Watch out ya'll! That fire's outta control!”

“Where's Dep?” Grace's husky voice cried. “She was right here!”

“There!” Hurk gasped. “The roof's on fire!”

Dep chortled, a bit of drool running down her chin. _We don't need no water, let the motherfucker burn._

How did she wind up there again? One minute, she was dancing with Earl Whitehorse, making fun of his mustache, the next-

RRRRROOOOOAAAARRR.

John Seed's plane, the Affirmation, rumbled overhead. _Oh, right. Him._ Darkness pressed in, tunneling her vision. Dep's breath rattled in slow, shallow gasps. The tinsel rain continued to twist, sparkle and ignite. It wasn't such a bad sight to go out to. The awning above cracked loudly, but she didn't hear it. Her eyes slid shut, the lids animated, shining with the dancing lights of the fires.

 _Knew I shoulda took that open position in Vermont. Nothin ever happens in Vermont._ She groaned and passed out. The roof groaned back, shaking. Debris spilled down in a hail of sparks, charred plastic, tinsel streamers, splinters...

**Earlier:**

She dug at the splinter under the pad of her right index finger, using Jess Black's knife. She was making a mess of things, blood pooling from the slit she'd made. No matter how she pried and pushed, the annoying little fucker wouldn't leave.

“Sunnova,” she grumbled in her Appalachian accent, something she'd failed to smother as a teenager in Los Angeles. She gave up, wiping the bloody knife on her jeans, sucking on her fingertip.

“Didn't get it?” Jess Black asked, without the slightest bit of concern. She yanked her arrow from the pea-brain of a dead turkey. A stack of six more was piled by their gray ATV. She'd killed two with one arrow, piercing them right through their mean little eyes. Dep would have felt sorry, if the demonic things didn't insist on dive-bombing her from the bushes every time she squatted to pee.

“Nah. Thing's rooted deep in there. Fixin to stay.”

Jess crouched, tending to her kills. She looked up from the shade of her hood. “Oh well. Guess we'll have to take ya out back and shoot ya.”

 _Pegs already tried, but go for it,_ Dep thought. She smiled, happy to have someone else share her crude sense of humor. Ever since the loudmouthed huntress, whose favorite word was 'fuck', had joined the Resistance, things'd gotten much more interesting. She seemed content to stay on Dep's tail, like a bear lumbering after its prey. Jess didn't play well with others, and the Whitetail Militia and Jacob Seed wanted her, for her peerless wilderness skills and ferocity with a bow.

“Will you quit flashin yer teeth like yer in a toothpaste commercial?” Jess grunted, struggling with an arrow that had lodged into a nearby tree. “Yer freakin me out. Don't see what there is to smile about.”

Deputy turned away, stifling a laugh. She wasn't so sure Jess's presence wasn't the reason Eli had sent his right-hand woman, Tammy, and the young buck, Wheaty (together their names made for a good 70s folk band), to the little shindig the Resistance was putting on tonight, just outside Fall's End. They were calling it a shindig, that is. The Peggies would probably call it an abomination, and abominations required security, hence Tammy.

“DAMN IT!” Jess roared, pulling the arrow from the tree. It was bent beyond repair. She snapped it in half, growling, “Knew I shoulda picked up more when I had the chance! God-damned Resistance ain't no help neither; no arrows for sale cuz everyone wants to use guns n' kill the shit outta each other. Assholes!”

Dep raised a hand to her mouth and stepped out of the way of her tantrum. _Good luck taming that one, Jacob._ Speaking of town:

She raised her binoculars and glassed Fall's End, from her spot on a hill to the south. It was a crisp, clear, hot August day. The grass surrounding the town had faded to a dry, brittle color. Hope County was in the mummified grip of a drought, and if they didn't get rain soon, they might have a food shortage on their hands. Toward the baseball field, tents and a stage had been erected that morning. The 'Testicle Festival' cart was parked there, along with a meat smoker.

In town, outside Pastor Jerome's church, the Whitetail and Cougar flags flapped in the breeze, an American flag at the apex, signaling the union of the three regions. She panned back to main street. A series of blinding flashes assaulted her eyes.

“Gawd!” She lowered the binoculars, seeing stars. “Sharky's doin somethin stupid again...”

“Colr'm shurprished,” Jess mumbled through a mouthful of arrow shaft. She was taking inventory, reloading her quiver.

“What?”

Jess removed the arrow. “Color me surprised.”

“Oh. Right. You about done? I better see what that drunk pyro's gettin up to.”

Jess heaved her shoulders and huffed, “If you're in such a damned rush, why dontcha take the ATV and somma these birds back? I can walk.”

Now that was a bit more 'tude than she cared for. Deputy regarded her, stern-faced. Though they were only a few years apart, she felt a sisterly responsibility for Jess. Maybe because her only one was dead three years now. She shook her head, clearing away dark thoughts.

“You sure?”

Jess waved her off. Her bow drawn, the trees commanded her attention. Her keen eyes were always scanning for fresh meat. Deputy knew better than to bother Jess when she'd made up her mind. The huntress stalked off, after something in the shadows, two turkeys hanging from her shoulders like a morbid feather boa.

Stringing up the remaining fowl by their feet, she turned the key and the ATV coughed to life. The dashboard radio blasted a familiar tune, thanks to Wheaty's playlist and the liberated radio towers: _Years too late/She's a silver lining lone ranger riding/Through an open space/In my mind when she's not right there beside me_

A rustling in the grass distracted her. Thinking it was a skunk, she took her pistol from her hip holster. _Oh no you don't, my smelly friend._ She'd been dosed with skunk 'bliss' enough times to have learned her lesson. But the Deputy relaxed her gun as quickly as she'd drawn it. Peaches emerged, parting the grass sea smoothly. She greeted her human with a squeak.

“There you are, slut,” Dep accused, twisting her lip wryly, as if watching a friend stumble through the door fresh from the walk-of-shame. “You see your boyfriend again?”

She thought, with a shade of envy, _At least one of us is getting laid. Bit of a dry spell, and it ain't the drought._

The big cat sat on her powerful haunches and yawned, folding her pink tongue between white fangs. The back of her neck was matted where her mate's jaws had clamped down on her. Peaches curled her tail around her back legs, as if to curtsy and say, 'Who? Lil' old me?'

_Jeezus. What a hoe._

“Whatever,” she said, pointing in the direction Jess had gone (did cats understand pointing, or was that dogs? She was more of a dog person, but Grace had borrowed Boomer to help guard the church while she was guarding Fall's End).

“Shoo! Go follow Jess.”

The big cat's fire-and-water eyes blinked at her.

“Or not. I ain't your mama.”

For a brief moment, she entertained the thought of motherhood. She'd never thought of herself as the type of woman to raise children or even have a family. Mama had been hardworking enough, providing for them where she could, but life had thrown too many punches, and she'd worked herself into an early grave trying to do right by her kids. She'd gone out in a hospital bed, the lung cancer claiming her at just 65 years old.

Dep shook her head of the unpleasant memories. She wheeled the ATV off at a decent clip, enjoying the wind against her face, the clean taste of the air, the whine of the engine, the ground crunching under the tires. She looked back once, to see Peaches following at her leisure. Her list of animal companions had grown of late, including the cougar and a diabetic grizzly bear.

Her list of friends had grown as well. So why did she feel so fuckin empty most of the time?

The radio continued to play: _I go crazy cause here isn't where I wanna be/And satisfaction feels like a distant memory/And I can't help myself/All I wanna hear her say is are you mine?_

Absently, her fingertips brushed against the big tattoo on her chest, hidden by her red flannel shirt. It had finally healed and stopped its itching. She hadn't given the man who'd done it much consideration, the past month-and-a-half. She'd been too busy cleaning up the messes caused by him and his lunatic siblings. The sexy, sadistic Baptist, with his disarming blue eyes, who'd seduced her in his bunker (or had she seduced him? She supposed it was a mutual fuckup), had been unusually silent over the radio waves.

_I guess what I'm trying to say is I need the deep end/Keep imagining meeting, wished away entire lifetimes/Unfair we're not somewhere misbehaving for days_

No TV broadcasts. No flyovers or hunting parties or bliss bullets. Only the same messages repeating on a loop on the Peggie channels. The unspoken message came in clear: John wanted nothing to do with her, The Outsider. Maybe that was a good thing. The sleepless nights, the wistful sighs that rose to her lips like prayers, those were symptoms of the conflict, she told herself. Yet, she couldn't help but feel an umbilical of unfinished business connecting them, and neither was willing to cut it.

Of their own volition, her eyes flicked to the obnoxious 'YES' sign to the north. What kind of ego-maniac built something like that? She scoffed and gripped the handlebars so tight, her rings bit into her fingers. She hadn't forgotten the vow she'd made, after John freed Hudson, with nothing but an opened bottle of tequila in her hands. That was his version of a silent...what? A thank you? A parting gesture? It certainly hadn't been a peace treaty. He'd attacked Fall's End himself, while a force of Peggies had hunted her down.

After the Resistance drove them out, it was then she'd vowed to never give John her ear, or any other part of her, ever again. He needed to sort out his priorities, and she needed half a bottle of whiskey to sleep most nights.

Peaches squeaked again and took off, smelling something tasty coming from the Spread Eagle's kitchen. Deputy coasted in behind the cat, parking outside the dive bar she'd called home for the summer.

“That you with those gobblers I asked for?” Chef Casey shouted from the kitchen, the door open. “GET OUTTA HERE, CAT! You're covered in germs! And what the HELL is that smell?”

Peaches took off in a flurry of paws, a pig's hoof clenched in her jaws. All that reckless mating must have stirred up her appetite.  
  
She handed Jess's turkeys over to chef Casey, sweating and chopping away at meat and gristle. The kitchen was a sight that would've made a vegan weep: flush with animal carcasses, all neatly butchered, plucked, skinned, and ready for the grill and fryer. She had been a vegetarian for several years in California. After Hope County, she rediscovered her taste for blood.

“You sure prairie oysters won't make a good side dish? Think I got a few left in the freezer from last time,” Casey asked, cleaving his way through a rack of ribs. She winced, remembering the ordeal she'd gone through to get the bull testicles for him (and the legendary hangover that had followed).

“Positive.” Truth was, she couldn't handle any more 'John's blue-balls' jokes from Addie.

“All right, then. Uh, you wanna put that thing away?” Casey asked.

Deputy looked down at her hand, where she still had Jess's knife clutched tight. She'd ridden the whole way with the blade pointing outward, as if expecting someone to throw themselves (himself) at her. She was gonna have a fun time explaining that one to Jess. She tucked it into her boot.

“If that's all you need, I'm gonna wash up n' get dressed before the party starts,” she said hopefully.

“Hmm. Got lotsa work to do yet. Pastor Jeffries was asking after you. So was the Sheriff.”

She froze with her back turned. She was in high demand of late, and didn't really care for the attention. It was like people thought she was a cop, like was supposed to protect and serve, or something.

“But, I think I'll tell 'em you went back out to do one last sweep of the woods. Long as you let me fry up a few prairie oysters, that is.”

“Deal!”

Casey winked at her, before returning to his butchering, wiping sweat from his brow with a towel over his shoulder. She smiled her thanks and skirted past him, into the bar, under the colorful glowing lights. She crossed the creaking, polished floors that smelled of pine varnish and ran upstairs. She went into the bathroom, stripped off her clothes, and jumped into the upstairs shower, avoiding the mirror, telling herself she was just in a hurry.

_Like hell you are._

Afterwards, she ripped the shower curtain aside, sending a few rungs pinging to the floor. She marched to the sink, trailing water across the tile. She wiped mist from the mirror, revealing her reflection. Slowly, she lowered her bath towel, inch by inch, until it rested at the tops of her breasts. 'WRATH' seemed to jeer at her through its backwards reflection.

 _What the hell were you thinking, girl?_ The more her eyes lingered on the slashed, black letters, daydreaming about the hand that put them there, the more a deep sense of longing jabbed its hooks inside, yanking on her heart, pulling it to the west, toward the missile silo bunker.

 _Fuck this._ Shutting her eyes, she let the towel drop to the floor. Leaning against the bathroom door, stealing one last glance at the tattoo, she let her hand slide between her legs and conjured up memories steamier than the mirror in front of her. She threw her head back, breathing...

...John Seed breathed, slow and deliberate, through his diaphragm. The way he'd learned to control it, during times of intense stress and pain. And visits from brother Joseph always managed to stress him out. Sometimes, there was pain. Abundant, soul-cleansing pain. His arms spread, he leaned against the control panel of his bunker, head bowed, bathed in the light of the camera feeds in the dim room. Technology had always comforted him. It could be controlled, easily repaired. All it took was the right tools, a steady hand, sometimes a thump or jab from a wrench.

“Sir?” a Peggie in thick body armor called, from outside the locked door. “The Father has arrived.”

John didn't lift his head, his shoulders sloped inward. “Send him to the confession room.”

The guard nodded once and left. Lingering in the comfort of static and images, the soft grind of computers processing data, the way they were designed, lent him an iota of strength. Mostly, though, they drowned out the noise in his head, the hiss of static more attuned to his thoughts than any other frequency. Every time he tried to focus, he could only see her face: The Sinner that Got Away, or The Sinner He Let Go, he still wasn't clear on the particulars.

 _She made off with your key,_ he reminded himself, remembering the lame excuses he'd told his men about its disappearance. _Tricky girl. I''d like to repay her, someday._

He met Joseph a few minutes later, shoving his hands into the pockets of his long, airplane-printed overcoat. He strode into the torture chamber, the stale sweat and piss reek of fear saturating the air down there. His brother stood in front of a framed portrait of himself, illuminated by gold and white candles. Joseph wasn't looking at those, however. He gazed upward at an empty beam, hung on ropes and chains, where white curtains draped down to the floor. The fabric was spattered through with old bloodstains.

“You've done some redecorating,” Joseph Seed observed, motioning with his bearded chin to the spot where a man's mutilated body had dangled days prior. John's playthings, the bodies wrapped in trash bags, strung up like Christmas stockings, were also missing.

John shrugged. “They were starting to smell.”

“...I see,” Joseph said. He was wearing his usual gray and white preacher's getup, the yellow Jim Jones shades perched on his head, brown hair drawn into a bun. “They never seemed to bother you before. Have a change of heart?”

Leave it to Joseph to see right through his facade. Frustrated, John held his tattooed arms out at his sides, fingers splayed. “What did you come here for, Joseph? Had I known you were dropping in so suddenly, I would have taken the time to prepare some fresh converts. I know you enjoy that.”

“John. Little brother. Always so quick to give an answer, an excuse. You and I both know, I did not come here for them. I'm here regarding one person.”

Joseph turned to face him, a smile on his lips, yet his eyes were wide. Severe. They often didn't reflect the rest of his face. One electric ray-beam from his brother was all it took to shrink John to a small, helpless kid again. He was grateful he hadn't eaten anything.

His brother lifted his crucifix, clutching it tight. “I have prayed on it. Prayed night and day, for the past two months. Where God gives me answers, he gives me two more riddles to solve. Like the riddle of how you let the Deputy escape your grasp so carelessly.”

“I told you, it was an accident. She slipped by me.” John licked his lips, his throat suddenly dry. “Let us pray on it, brother, if it's troubling you.”

Ever the lawyer, John always had to try the pacifist defense, at least once. Joseph fell silent, thumbing his crucifix, tracing the sharp contours until it left indents. John knew better than to think of him as distracted. Joseph went over to the altar. He dipped his finger into a pool of hot, melted candle wax without so much as a flinch. It was he who had taught John about redirecting pain, after all, using it as a fuel line for his desires, his willpower. And he had taught him how to use it on converts. Give unto others, do unto others.

“What have I told you, about prayer without action?” Joseph asked, his finger still in the molten wax. Tempering his rage, or merely biding his time?

“If this is about the late shipments, they're due tomorrow morning for the river. We're still in a drought over here.”

Wrong answer. Joseph's posture visibly went rigid. John began to sweat, under his shirt, between his legs, adding to the aroma of fear in the air. He knew damn well the reason his brother had called on him; he never came here for nothing, always for some ulterior motive, be it watching a citizen he was keen to see tortured and broken in, or something John had done, there to 'reprimand' him for it. Usually that involved torture, too. Torture and scripture. The two seemed to go hand-in-hand these days.

“John...do you have something you need to confess?”

An innocent question, the undertone, anything but. _Just be honest. Get it off your chest and he won't hurt you!_ a boy's voice urged him. He hated that voice, The Negotiator, always trying to atone him at the expense of his pride, his sanity.

“My soul is clean,” he lied. Even then, in the midst of this, he could still hear her voice, feel her soft skin pressed against his as she moaned his name. It comforted a hidden part of him, rushing blood to others. So cried the dancing Salome to King Herod: bring me the head of John the Baptist on a platter! She would be the death of him, yet, if he wasn't careful.

Joseph clasped his wax-covered finger behind his back. He looked up at the empty walls of the torture chamber.

“I see your heart,” he sighed, turning around. He raised his arm, the one with the tattoo of his late wife, dragging it from his navel to his breast, where he beat his fist against his heart.

“It is _conflicted._ I _understand._ I have felt this kind of divide, between myself and the divine purpose. Mortal desires, tethering me to this earth, like a veal calf tethered to its cage.”

He pulled a switchblade from his trouser pocket, flipping it open. John took a step back. Sorrow in his brother's expression. Suddenly, he was back in the kitchen with a split lip, two swollen eyes, and a broken wrist, their parents standing over him. Mother and Father, sorrow and anger. Mother gripping the belt in one hand, an open Bible in the other. Father had white flowers clenched in his fists, crushing them. They had caught him playing, instead of doing chores, making necklaces out of flowers with the neighbor kids, a boy and a girl.

“What would you have me do?” he implored.

“What we discussed. I need to know you're fully prepared, to do what's needed.”

“Haven't I always?”

“With a few...unfortunate bumps along the way, yes,” Joseph answered. He sliced off slivers of wax from his own finger with the keen edge of the knife, letting them fall to the floor in chunks. His eyes bored into John's.

He said, “Don't forget what's coming. Don't get lost in the death throes of this world. We are going to build a new one. A better one.”

“I will not waver,” John answered firmly. Inside, he felt like a soft worm on a hook. Defiance bubbled and frothed there, too, but he knew to keep it restrained around Joseph. “My faith is as strong as ever. Let me prove it to you!”

“Tonight,” Joseph confirmed, nodding. He pressed the flat of the blade into the pad of his own finger, now free of the wax coating, not hard enough to draw blood. “The pilots I sent are waiting on the surface. They will help you take back what you've lost. The Deputy is useful to us, John. We need her. But you cannot forget your place in this. Nor must you forget hers.”

He had feared this moment would come. John's stomach turned. The switchblade folded and went back in his brother's pocket, but John couldn't exhale, not even when Joseph stepped forward and brought his forehead against his, hands on his shoulders.

“Then you shall cut off her hand, your eye shall have no pity,” Joseph quoted. “And when the LORD your God has delivered them over to you to defeat them, then you must completely destroy them. Make no treaty with them and show them no mercy. ”

“Yes, Joseph.”

The Father left the bunker shortly after. Far too many things demanding his attention, with the end of the world incoming. But family matters always came first. He was off to see Faith (John called them by numbers for a last name, and he'd forgotten which number this Faith belonged to). Watching Joseph leave in a dark, unmarked van, John waited until it was out of sight.

Only then did he exhale hot air from his screaming lungs, sweet relief flooding his senses, until he saw stars. And there she stood, naked, beckoning to him behind the stars, the constellation on her chest spelling out one word.

“Best of luck,” he murmured to the gloom. That was one prayer he would take action on, if he could help it. John walked for the field beyond the bunker, where the planes and open skies awaited him.


	2. Season's Greetings!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playlist for your ear-pleasure: "Badfish" Sublime, "This is America" Childish Gambino, "Shitlist" L7

“I don't care how it looks, clean it up!” she barked. A vein throbbed in her forehead.

Sharky called down: “Aw, c'mon, Dep! Where's your Christmas spirit?”

He balanced on the top rung of a ladder, cigarette dangling between his lips, stringing a box full of tinsel along the general store sign. He'd 'decorated' the entire town with glittering clumps of the stuff. It was hard to be mad (oh but she was managing). Growing up, her siblings had hated tinsel, finding it tacky, but she'd always insisted on coating the tree in the stuff, until it looked like something a drag queen would wear. Christmas had always been a special time for her family: Papa had time off, and would drink and come home late the entire week, so they were spared having to see or hear him.

Sharky upturned the cardboard box, scattering the rest of the tinsel to the wind. Littering AND fire hazards. The Deputy inhaled sharply through her nose and started counting to ten.

The radio at the foot of the ladder played some old Sublime, crooning through the speakers: _When you grab ahold of me/Tell me that I'll never be set free/But I'm a parasite/Creep and crawl I step into the night_

“Can't let this stuff go to waste!” chimed Sharky, nodding along to the jams. “Found a whole mess of it in an abandoned trailer.”

“But...why?” she asked, exasperated.

“Why? Cuz we're gonna have Christmas in July! We missed out on the Fourth, what with the conflict and all.”

“Sharky, it's August,” she said through clenched teeth.

“No shit?” He picked at the seat of his jeans, the other hand rearranging the tinsel. “Christmas in July: In August. I like the sound of it! You seen Hurk anywhere? He's got my brewskies!”

 _Ain't got no quarrels with God/Ain't got no time to grow old/Lord knows I'm weak/Won't somebody get my off of this reef?_ The mellow jams had a calming effect, soothing her wrath somewhat. Somewhat. She could feel it simmering on the back burner, never far from the boiling point _._ John's naming of her sin couldn't have been more accurate if he'd stolen her blueprints from God himself.

“That stuff's _flammable_ , Sharky. You understand that word? FLAMMA-BOLL.” She shook the ladder. “We're at risk enough with this drought! It needs to come down. NOW.”

Sharky cursed and slid down to the ground, wiping his sweaty hands on his jeans. The orange tip of his cigarette flared as he took a drag.

“Why? You expecting a fire?”

He ashed his cigarette. Dep's eyelid twitched. “No, but-”

“-Is that what you're wearin to the party?” he interrupted _._ “Cuz, like, I think it's cool and all, you got pride for the police and whatever. But don't you ever feel like lettin your hair down? Puttin on your boogie shoes? Maybe a nice mini-skirt and heels?”

The last time she let her hair down, she'd slept with a Seed brother. She chewed her lip. Mary May had given her permission to pick something out of her closet. A summer dress caught her attention, but, ever the pragmatic one, she thought the better of it. She'd gone with skinny jeans, hiking boots, and a black t-shirt under her bulletproof vest.

And, of course, the rings on her fingers, which she never took off. The only flair she'd added to the vest had been a purple Cougars pin Virgil bestowed upon her, after they'd retaken the prison from the Peggies. Baseball reminded her of her late brother, who had played up until a few years before his 'accident'. She liked to think he would have approved. The pin brought a dumb smile to her face every time she put it on.

But she wasn't smiling just then.

“What's _that_ supposed to mean?” she asked Sharky, knocking her fingers against the hard Kevlar. “Maybe I want it to be Halloween in August, and I'm goin as a Fed. Ya ever thinka that?”

“Shit, you make today whatever you want it to be,” he said, lifting his cap and shrugging. “Today's the day to let go and celebrate! Now if you'll excuse me, I gotta find Hurk and crack open one of them sweet Whistlin Beavers.”

She sighed and let the issue go. Maybe all the tinsel would blind any would-be attackers flying over the town. Her cop instincts knew where there were parties, there would be trouble. Had she known exactly how much trouble, she never would have agreed to Mary May's and Pastor Jerome's idea to have the celebration in the first place.

She spent the rest of the afternoon helping set up for the party, to begin at sundown. She even helped Sharky hang candy-cane lights and Christmas ornaments along the fence of the baseball diamond. Wheaty assembled his DJ booth and started blasting his favorite tunes. Classic rock. Nice. Anything was better than Peggie Jams 105 (if she had to hear “Oh John!” one more time, she was gonna stick her head in a wolverine den).

She waved to Wheaty as she walked past his booth, Tammy standing nearby, rifle strapped to her back. She didn't look thrilled to be there, probably preferring her interrogation room and kiddie pool to daylight.

A friendly, gruff voice called from across the party grounds, “Rookie! Just the gal I was looking for!”

“Sheriff,” Deputy greeted.

She walked over to the food carts, joining the grizzled Montana lawman. She'd taken to Whitehorse almost instantly upon her transfer to Hope County. He was the right kind of boss: didn't ask too many questions, didn't micro-manage, but still expected nothing but the best. He often brought it out of people too, through relentless kindness and a no-bullshit attitude. A man her criminal father and uncles would have disliked, and so she liked him by default.

“Wanted to thank you for helping put all this together,” Whitehorse told her. He wore his usual ten-gallon hat and blue jeans. He'd come without his bullet proof vest, which she thought unwise, but at least he was armed. He poured a cup of golden, frothing beer from one of the kegs lined up near the main stage.

“Here. You've earned it.”

She reached for the cup, uncertain she had. The party-goers were starting to arrive in throngs, both citizens and Resistance streaming onto the baseball field. A lot of lives, clustered in one tiny spot, and with all the Seeds itching for righteous redemption. She took the beer with some trepidation.

“Thanks,” she said, watching the foam fizzle. Her eyes scanned the skies and the hills beyond town. The 'YES' sign, which would haunt her dreams until her end days, seemed to egg her on.

“Come on, Rook. Let loose a little. That's an _order_ ,” he said, taking a long sip of his drink. She guessed he'd been sampling at the kegs for a while now, judging by the color in his cheeks. Lord knew, the man was under some stress, and he was no prude, preferring beer to water most days. His time in Faith's bliss-induced wonderland had knocked the wind out of him. She wasn't sure he'd taken a full breath since.

“We could have Peggie trouble. I really shouldn't.”

He pointed toward the water tower. “We've been through this, Rook. We've got Grace and two of my guys on the church, the water tower, and the general store rooftop. A dozen armed Resistance patrolling the borders of the town on ATVs. We've got Nick Rye on standby-”

“-whose wife just had a baby,” she reminded him. God, she hated being the Debbie Downer. She frowned and drank deeply from her beer. It was bitter, cold, and thirst-quenching. She found she had a mighty thirst.

The Sheriff smirked. “All the more reason to give Nick a chance to get out of the house. Man's gotta have something to fight for.”

 _Just as long as it's not die for,_ she thought. She liked both the Ryes more than her own dysfunctional family.

“And the prison?” she asked.

He lowered his cup and sucked foam off his thick mustache. “Tracey's overseeing operations there while I'm gone. Got the radio on standby. It's in good hands. So relax, all right?”

“Yeah, yeah, all right. I'll relax.”

She took out her frustration and kept busy, greeting the guests, patrolling the borders of the party—until Whitehorse sent Hurk after her and shut it down, practically forcing another beer into her hands. After said beer turned into a few, and as the crescent moon rose over the mountains, she finally started to enjoy herself. They were short on entertainment, but some folks with acoustic guitars took over on stage, strumming a few classic country tunes.

They even had a dance floor, hashed together from cardboard boxes and duct tape, with rows of colorful lights strung above. Chef Casey served up every type of barbecued critter one could think of, smothered in sauce or dry-rubbed to perfection. The air smelled like charcoal and meat. Carnivore heaven.

Deputy parked herself on a picnic bench and sank her teeth into some ribs. Adelaide stumbled over, Pastor Jerome and Mary May in tow. They plopped down at the table next to her, Mary May spilling some of her beer, giggling. It was nice to see the bar owner laughing for once.

“Landin' Strip!” Addie greeted loudly, smacking her on the back. She took a long gulp from a bottle of expensive tequila, one that she recognized as John Seed's. She'd been through her room, then. Great.

She cringed into her red solo cup. “Addie. Mary May.” She nodded at Jerome. “Padre. What's up?”

“Just wanted to thank you again, for your help with all this,” Pastor Jerome said, also clapping her on the shoulder, using a bit more force than usual. Like Whitehorse, she guessed he'd been 'sampling' from the kegs.

“I know things haven't been easy for anybody,” he waxed on. “It means a lot, when newcomers like yourself-”

“Aw, give it a rest, will ya?” Addie slurred. She thrust the tequila bottle in her direction. “No sappy stuff! Oh, I hope you don't mind me openin John's little present.” She chuckled. “Lord knows, I ain't talkin about the one in his trousers, am I right, Dep?”

Her flush deepened, and she wished she could dive into her beer and hide until they were gone.

But Addie rambled on, “Yeah, I found it when I was raidin Mary May's closet for a new shirt. Got some stains on mine on the flight over; Xander's lucky I'm ambidextrous or we might've crashed the Tulip into the Henbane! Uhh, what was I sayin again?”

Deputy pondered about the logistics of an in-flight handjob. Jerome was sweating like a megachurch pastor during an IRS audit, and Mary May was trying to distract him, babbling something about how nice the Spread Eagle's lights looked over the dance floor.

“Why does Addie keep calling you 'Landing Strip'?” he asked all of a sudden.

Addie swung around in her seat and crowed, “Funny story! You see our Deputy here-”

She finished quickly, “-tripped and pancaked flat on her face, tryin to climb into an airplane at the Rye's. Scraped my face open on the landin strip.”

Addie sipped from the tequila bottle, her eyebrows raised. Pastor Jerome chuckled, scratching the back of his head. Mary May winced, stifling her laughter.

“Well, I don't wanna keep you ladies from catching up,” he said, sensing awkwardness. “I think the Sheriff and I are due to make speeches soon. But first I'm gonna get my hands on some of that barbecue. See if Casey's holds a candle to my granddaddy's recipe. 'Scuse me.”

He rose, stumbling a little on his way up, and left. Addie gulped more tequila and slammed the squat bottle on the table.

“Daaamn! If you seen John, be sure to give him my thanks. That stud muffin has good taste in booze!”

“More like I'll give him a bullet to the head,” she replied waspily.  
  
“Yeah, sure. Tell yourself that.” Addie pushed the tequila toward her again. She caved and gulped the last sip, memories surging back as the liquor surged down her throat. She thumbed the opening of the bottle, debating chucking it as far as she could.

Mary May sipped her beer. She asked gently, “You've been thinking about him?”

Deputy snorted. “Why should I?”

“'Cuz you're worse than that lady-cougar that's been howlin after tomcats, that's why,” Addie said bluntly. “Ain't never seen a sorrier sight! When you ain't fightin Peggies, I've seen you moping around, staring at the 'YES' sign like he's gonna show up on top of it with a bouquet of flowers, wearin' nothin but a g-string.”

Bristling, she prepared her defense, but the words wouldn't come. She glowered into her beer instead. Mary May rolled her eyes.

“After all John's done to this region, to Fall's End, he's been awfully quiet. I don't like it,” Mary May said. Despite her history with John being a supreme dick to her and her family, she had been more than understanding, even welcoming to the Deputy, despite her 'indiscretions'. Maybe it was more out of necessity than kindness, but she didn't think so. Mary May, unlike herself, was genuine, and didn't keep many secrets. She often thought she didn't deserve their company, although Addie might have been worse than her.  
  
To the point, Addie laughed. “Ha! He's probably holed up like a lovesick teenager in his bunker. Dep, you think he jerks it to your wanted posters?”  
  
She sprayed her beer everywhere. Mary May and Addie cackled like witches. It couldn't be helped. The summer had been so insane, so out of the realm of reality, with constant threats of doomsday from Joseph, it felt good just to laugh.

“That's _real_ funny,” someone's voice said quietly. “Yeah, go on. Laugh it up.”

She spun around. Joey Hudson, the bruises on her face and neck almost healed, was sitting back-to-back with her. She hadn't noticed in her distracted state.

“Hudson,” she started, reaching out. Hudson shot her a disgusted look, and Dep retracted her hand. “I'm sorry. It's just...fuck, it's been a long summer. You gotta joke about these things, sometimes. We're only blowin off steam. I didn't know-”

Hudson snorted, slamming her cup on the table. “Oh, I bet! You know what's a joke? Running around, acting like you're in a fucking video game, when lives are on the line!”

She was drunk, her eyes bloodshot. She crushed her cup beneath her boot as she stood up. A few party-goers watched her, guilty expressions on their faces, including the Deputy's.

“Enjoy your night, ladies,” she hissed, before storming off.

“Welp, don't I feel like my ex-husband, with my dick caught in a hornet's nest,” Addie muttered, resting her hand against her face.

“Same,” Dep said, watching as Hudson elbowed her way through the crowd. “If you girls'll excuse me, I think I have some un-fuckery I need to do.”

She chased after her, navigating through the throng of dancing, drunk people, casually dismissing them when they tried to greet her or pull her aside. She found Hudson on the edge of the party, doubled over in the grass, relieving her stomach of her bison burger and fries.

“Here.” She offered her a cup of water. Hudson spat in the grass and took it, sipping clumsily. She added, “I'm sorry. I'm a real asshole sometimes.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Hudson muttered. Still doubled over, she faced downward, her black hair hanging in her eyes. “Whatever, Rook. I know you've been doing your best. I'll admit it. The Resistance owes you a lot.”

“They owe you even more,” she insisted guiltily. “You were down there for a long time, Hudson. Didn't tell John anything. You're real police. Tough as god-damned nails. No one's gonna forget that. I ain't blowin smoke, neither. I mean it.”

Hudson spat again, and nodded. She eased back, planted her rear in the grass, and sipped the water, cup held between her knees. She took a pack of smokes from her shirt pocket and lit one. Handed another to the her, and she lit it off the end of Hudson's.

Looking out into the night, Hudson mused, “Guess I tried to party too hard. Got shit I'm trying to forget, you know?”

“Yeah, I know.”

Hudson shut her eyes. “You go enjoy yourself, Rook.”

“You sure? I could help you to your room.”

“Fuck off.” She grinned clumsily, the cigarette tilting upward. “You act like police can't drink. Don't tell Whitehorse about this, though.”

“I won't,” Dep said, smiling back. “Later, Hudson.”

She turned and started to walk away. Took a drag off her cigarette.

“Hey Rook! Wait a sec.”

She turned around. Hudson looked up her, grave all of a sudden. She blew a jet of smoke and wiped her mouth with a trembling hand.

“I know how you feel about John Seed. But there's somethin you should know. He's fucking insane. All the Seeds are, but John's different. The things I heard him say when he was torturing m-, ah, torturing people. I can't repeat them here, but believe me, Rook. You don't wanna mess with that guy. The next time you see him, if you don't have a clear shot—run. Run away, and be glad-”

Hudson trailed off, retching. Deputy froze in place, her cigarette forgotten in her fingers.

She said quietly, “I told you. After I escaped, I made a promise to never treat with John, ever.”

“That's what they're calling it? 'Treating'?” Hudson laughed, then coughed and spat. She waved her away. “Let me lick my wounds in peace. I'll see ya around, Rook. Remember what I told you, though.”

There was more she wanted to say, wanted to ask her, but someone had usurped the stage mic from the performers.

“Ladies and gentlemen, or whatever pronouns you're using these days! The Enemy is infiltrating this party!” Zip, the local conspiracy theorist, hollered over the speakers. The crowd fell silent, exchanging a few alarmed glances.

“They got us chipped and tracked like game animals! This violates the NAP!”

“The fuck are you talkin about?” someone shouted.

 _Mother of God,_ Dep thought, and skirted around the crowd to get to the stage. Times like these, she missed her taser sorely, thinking it would do Zip good to electrocute some of those dulled brain cells back to life. Dude needed to quit putting acid in his Cheerios.

“That's right!” another voice cried. She recognized it as Larry Parker's. “The Reptilians are among the warm-bloodeds! You gotta look at the eyes to tell! Turn to your right and your left! Look at your neighbor and-”

“ALL RIGHT!” Sheriff Whitehorse hollered, beating her to the stage. “That's enough! You boys need to lay off the damned oregano. I'm gonna have to ask you to exit stage right. I've got something to say.”

Zip leaned forward, prodding him in the chest with a finger. “Fake news! Your badge is plastic, isn't it? This is the worst disinfo agent I've ever seen!”

“I'm not gonna ask again,” Whitehorse warned, catching Zip's finger and twisting it. Zip groaned and dropped the mic, and the Sheriff let go and snatched it up.

“Hey, that's assault! Assault on a civilian!” Larry wailed.

“OFF the stage. Now, gentlemen.”

Larry tugged a pouting Zip by the arm, and the two thudded off. The crowd cheered, but Sheriff Whitehorse raised his hands to quiet them down. Deputy stopped a few feet away from the stage, her arms folded against her vest. Members of the Resistance, the Whitetail Militia, and Hope County Cougars all stood nearby.

“I wanna thank you all for coming out!” Whitehorse started. “Uh, I'm not really great at public speaking, so I'll keep this short. But when Pastor Jeffries-” He nodded to Jerome, who was climbing the stairs as he spoke. “And Ms. Mary May rang me with the idea for this, I actually said no at first. Thought it was too risky. Then I thought about it some more. And, uh, hell, I forgot what I was gonna say.”

Pastor Jeffries took the mic from him. “Thank you, Sheriff. I think what you were trying to say, was that we, the good people of the Resistance, have dealt with a lot, ever since the cult showed up in Hope County. Some of you are new to our cause.” He stared at her, and she lowered her gaze, blushing. “Some of you have been here a while. We've all lost something. But that's not all that unites us...”

The crowd fell silent, reflecting, a few people wiping tears. It struck her harder than she'd expected. While she as a stranger here, almost everyone else had lost someone they'd loved to Eden's Gate. Pastor Jerome cleared his throat and delivered the rest of his speech. It was humble enough, full of more scripture than she cared for, but she heard a few sniffles in the crowd.

Finally, Pastor Jerome raised his fist, and the crowd hooted and cheered, doing the same. They broke into applause as he and Whitehorse exited the stage. Wheaty put on 'Sweet Home Alabama', and people assembled on the dance floor. The Deputy, more than a little tipsy, followed the Sheriff, meaning to thank him for negotiating with Eli, who could be hard ass about sparing his men.

She found him standing on the edge of the dance floor, watching the crowd, lost in thought. He daydreamed more and more these days, and she couldn't help but wonder if he was thinking about Faith. The bliss hangover never seemed to go away, and she often worried about her boss's mental state. Things were bad enough with the Marshal still missing.

“Rook,” he greeted, gazing at nothing.

“C'mon, Hoss,” she invited, putting down her beer. “Dance with me?”  
  
He lifted his head. The fog in his brain seemed to clear, and he shook his grizzled head. “Oh no, I'm not the-”

She grabbed him by the arm and pulled him close. “That's an _order_ , Sheriff.”

He shrugged and loosened up, following her. They danced slowly, keeping a respectful distance (room for the Holy Spirit, a Peggie might say). Deputy bumped against Mary May and Hurk, who was leaning against her for support, his paws snaking a little closer to her backside with each step.

“Did I ever tell you the story about the Monkey King?” Hurk slurred into her ear. He reeked of oregano. Dep could smell it from her spot.

“Uhhh...” was all Mary May managed to say, as they drifted away.

“Enjoying yourself?” Earl Whitehorse asked, after a while.

She smiled. “Yeah. Jerome must've been up all night, writin that speech. Coulda shown the president's one from _Independence Day,_ saved him some time. May as well be dealin with aliens.”

Whitehorse had no idea what she was talking about, and let the comment slide over his head. He said, “This means a lot to him. To us.”

She nodded, stepping with him to the beat. The song ended, and changed to Crosby's 'I'm Dreaming of a White Christmas'. Among some confused looks from the crowd, people laughed and began to sing along. Sharky, dressed as Santa in a beard and baggy red suit, climbed the stage and tossed Santa hats out to people.

“Put 'em on, folks!” he shouted, hoarse (Santa sounded like he'd smoked too many menthols). “Party's- _hic_!-just gettin started! Merry Chrish'mas!”

“Get off the stage, ya fackin drunk!” someone hooted.

Dep caught a Santa hat and pulled it onto her head, tossing the end over her shoulder.

“Happy holidays I guess,” she muttered to the Sheriff. “Hey, did I ever tell you, your mustache reminds me of the Lorax?”

“About a hundred times.”

He chuckled, and she thought maybe he'd pulled out of whatever Faith-related funk he was in. But his expression turned serious.

“I wanted to tell you, back when we took the prison back, there was a moment. I think I saw a little of the old LAPD Rook that day.”

She sucked in a breath. She was wayyyy to drunk to talk about that. Preparing a list of excuses in her head, she forced herself to relax. How much did he know about her time in LA? Her old supervisor had assured her that her paper trail was clean. Karma knew no distance, though, and it had followed her to Hope County, with all this cult bullshit. She wasn't a prophecy sort of gal, but there was no way it was merely coincidence, either.

Her eyes narrowed a little. “What d'you mean?”

“Only that you were fighting against something much bigger than yourself,” he explained. Whether he detected her suspicion, she couldn't tell. He went on, “I know times were tough for you. Losing your dad and your siblings, so close to one another. And with your partner Ramirez getting killed-”

She went rigid.

“-I don't like to talk about that,” she reminded him tersely. Her family tree had diminished to a stump in a few short years, culminating with her partner's murder at the hands of the cartel, a bust gone wrong, or so the news reports said. Deputy Ramirez had left behind an ex-wife, but no children, his mother in a nursing home, father somewhere in Venezuela.

Her twenties, almost over, had been an interesting decade, to say the least.

“Shit, Rook, I'm not trying to open old wounds. Not my business. But there's something you should know.”

She repressed a sigh of relief. “And what's that?”

“About Joseph Seed. While I was in the bliss-” Whitehorse licked his lips once, and the Deputy felt pity for him, knowing Faith's hooks were still inside. “The things Faith and Joseph whispered. They knew so much about me, it was like they were inside my damned mind. And then there's intel we got at the prison. Joseph's story needs an antagonist. And I think he's found one in you.”

He trailed off, thinking how he wanted to word it. She frowned. The dancers surrounding them seemed to move in slow motion, their faces blurred.

“What are you getting at, Sheriff? You sayin I'm the bad guy?”

“I'm saying, with your history, you're the exact kind of person Joseph Seed will try to manipulate,” he finished. He scratched the back of his blonde head as she glared daggers at him. “I'm sorry, Rook. But it's the truth. It took me going through three nights of withdraw, sweating on a cot, to realize what they're capable of. How serious Joseph is about all this. About you.”

His words stung, but she took them to heart. She smiled crookedly. “Damn. Gimme a little more credit. Actin like I cut down your favorite tree or somethin.”

Whitehorse attempted to smile back, but failed. He leaned in, whispering, “It wouldn't be a far cry, if he sent John to manipulate you. John could...Are you listening to me, Rook?”

The Christmas carol ended, the airwaves going silent. She was staring at the skies again, at the smattering of stars and moon, searching for planes.  
  
Deputy recovered and smirked. “Aw, gee, Sheriff. You're gonna make me puke.”

“I hope not. This is a new shirt.”

“Coulda fooled me. Which country singer's grave did you rob, to get that number?”

He tapped her bulletproof vest. “At least I'm not dressed like World War Three's about to start.”

That sobered them up a bit. They separated. Whitehorse tipped the brim of his hat. “Thanks for the dance.”

“Got some foam in your mustache.” She pointed, giggling. “Looks like you were face-deep in-”

BOOM! An explosion made her jump. Red, white, and blue lights blinded her. She expected screams, but the crowd cheered, their faces turned up to the night sky.

“Damn it!” the Sheriff swore. “I told Sharky no fireworks!”

“Peggies ain't gonna like that,” she remarked happily, between colorful blasts in the sky. Drunk, content, she watched the fireworks with the rest of the crowd, lost in the spectacle. It was nice to feel semi-normal for once.

“Merry Christmas in July: In August!” Santa Sharky hooted, when they were finished. He waved a bottle of Jack Daniels in the air.

“Uhh, technic'ly, we should be sayin 'happy holidays'!” Hurk corrected him. “Don't wanna offend anybody! Hey, maybe my ears're just ringin, but you hear that roaring?”

 

The fireworks must have offended somebody, because the next thing she would remember was waking up to a pair of strong hands dragging her off a burning porch, her Santa Hat knocked off by the bomb that had nearly killed her. It lay at her side, in flames.

“Dep? Deputy! You okay? Wake up!”

Someone was shaking her, slapping her hot face. She groaned and rolled over onto her side, pressing her cheek into the cool, kitchen linoleum of the house. She'd forgotten how sick concussions could make you feel. Probably because she'd had too many concussions.

“The hell happened?” she moaned.

“It's John!” Grace Armstrong cried. “John attacked us, and he's not done yet!”

“Hurk...ugh,” Dep managed to sputter, curling into a ball, her head pounding. “Nnn...machine gun!”

“Yeah, about that,” Grace growled, crouching low to the floor. Other fighters and residents hunkered in the kitchen and adjacent living room, nursing their wounds. “Hurk took out one of the planes, but there's two more!”

“Mounted gun,” she repeated. She tried to sit up, but couldn't find the breath to do it, fighting wave after wave of vertigo. It felt like her vest had melted into her clothes.

“The roof gun's fucked!” one of the fighters cried. She thought it was the general store owner. “We need to take out the planes another way, before they blow the whole fuckin town to pieces!”

“Maybe we should wait for them to finish,” a woman, a local hunter, suggested miserably. Her face was cut and bleeding, her hands covered in burns. “If all that tinsel hadn't caught on fire, I'd have made it to the machine gun! Who the hell was responsible for that?”

“Me,” the Deputy admitted, still on her side. She felt like shit, and it wasn't from being roasted like a marshmallow for god knew how long. “I was the one who let Sharky-”

Before she could finish, another explosion rattled the house. Plane engines roared and whined. She recognized one of them as John's Affirmation, just by the sound.

“UGH! Hasn't this motherfucker heard of overkill?” Grace gnashed her teeth. “And where the hell is Nick? He was sp'osed to watch the skies!”

Helpless, they could only watch through the smoke-stained windows, as the planes did one last flyover. Gunshots rang out in the street again, followed by shouts. More screams.

“I'll kill him for this...” she raged, chest heaving. “John, I'll-”

The Deputy never got to finish her determined speech. Her vision tunneled, and everything went black as sin. But she dreamed. Dreamed that Ramirez (nothing but a blurred face in a blue uniform) and her brother and sister (faceless mannequins, wearing their clothes) were standing over her, waiting for something, watching her. Like vultures in a desert, they seemed to patiently stay out of reach.

When she awoke, it was in the cold, crisp light of morning. She rolled out from under the table at the Spread Eagle and stumbled onto main street, her head pounding. What she saw stole her breath away, as if all the oxygen in the air had burnt up. Fall's End was ransacked. Scorched. Several residences had fallen, and part of the auto-body garage crumbled into ruins. The baseball field was still on fire in places, wiped off the face of the earth, no sign of the party (or guests) remaining.

“Fuck me,” she rasped. _How could John do this to us? We were too vulnerable. I fucking TOLD Whitehorse-_

The Sheriff! Panicking, she ran to the church, where she knew the dead would be. She screeched to a stop in front of five bodies, covered in sheets. She lifted them, one by one. It was nobody she knew, but she memorized their faces, one by one. Countless Peggies died too, but they were already burning in the town dump. She'd stopped feeling sorry for them a long time ago, even though she knew so many had been tricked and forced into the cult.

An exhausted Pastor Jerome was overseeing the digging of the graves and funeral services. Unsurprisingly, he had no words to spare for her, merely pointing her in the direction of the Sheriff. To her relief, she found Whitehorse and other Resistance in town, their hands full, helping clean up and treat the wounded.

“Yo! Where the fuck were you?” someone called.

Deputy whirled on her heel. Jess Black and Peaches wove between cars and debris, followed by Sharky and Hurk, all sleep-deprived and ashen, but unharmed.

“I could say the same for you!” Deputy cried. “What happened?”

“John went nutso on us after the fireworks!” Sharky puffed, still dressed as Santa, clutching a side-stitch. “He bombed us. Showed up with these other planes I've never seen before. Peggies invaded, too. Grace got everyone out in time.”

“Not everyone,” she remarked, pointing to the bodies in front of the church, her finger shaking with rage. “This is a disaster. I'll get him for this!”

“What are you gonna do? Take another nap?” Jess snapped. “Or maybe you'd like to fuck an apology out of John, huh?”

Sharky and Hurk winced. She opened her mouth, vitriol leaping to her throat like dragon fire. She considered Jess's bloody clothes, the haggard, dark circles under her eyes. The two men didn't look any better. Even Peaches' fur was singed in places.

“I've slept enough,” she said instead, dry-swallowing her anger. She felt like breaking something into a million pieces.

Instead, she searched the abandoned vehicles. Peggie squads had attacked them on the ground. A few of their trucks, equipped with revolving machine guns, sat abandoned, most of them damaged beyond repair, save for two. Sharky and Hurk grew curious, leaning closer.

“How did it end?” she asked them, hot-wiring one of the salvaged trucks. She guessed the keys were burning with the dead bodies in the dump. Awesome.

“I shot one of the planes. We brought it down,” Jess recounted.   
  
Her stomach gave a private lurch, and she forced her face to remain placid. It was easy while she was under the wheel. “John's?”  
  
She failed to hide all of the concern in her voice. Thankfully, Jess was distracted by the fires.

“Nah. Didn't do much damage, but the pilot banked right into Hurk's path.”

She lifted her head. Jess pointed to a column of black smoke out in the field, where something that was once a plane lay in smoldering ruins.

“Boom! Instant KO,” Hurk said triumphantly, pounding his big fist into his palm. “John and the other plane turned tail after that. We fucked up the rest of the Pegs. Mom got the Tulip going and Nick showed up to help, but that was after the planes'd gone.”

“Motherfuckers really did a number on this place,” Jess Black concluded. She leaned over her as she worked. “What're you plannin? You gonna go after John, or what? Maybe write him a love letter?”

Dep swatted at her, but Jess dodged her easily. She crossed some wires. The truck's engine roared to life. Grace approached from the church, sniper rifle in hand. Not a scratch on the hardened veteran, but her mouth was drawn into a deep frown.

Grace said, “Whatever it is, I want a piece. Attackin a celebration in cold blood, like that? John really is a gutless bastard.”

 _Sounds like he had help, though_ , Deputy mused. After months of nothing, he picked now to attack them? It made sense...except it also didn't. She twisted her lips in a frown.

“Grace,” she started. “I'm so sorry. I should've-”

“Shut it, man. Ain't nobody blamin you. So you just take that pity-party for yourself and shove it. We ain't got time for that shit.”  
  
She shut her mouth, chastised. She cranked the radio up and listened. She thought she heard something strange, coming from one of the other cars. Joseph's voice, instead of the usual gospel music. As she turned up the volume, the Father's smooth, clear voice lulled over the speakers:

“...join me on the summit of Angel's Peak. We will have a reading from the _Word of Joseph_ momentarily, to mark this victory against the enemy. The sermon from the mount will begin shortly.”

“He means from the statue,” Grace said.

Sharky ripped off the remains of his Santa beard. “That's where he's givin his victory speech? Ballsy move.”

“He's mocking our pain,” Jess spat. “We can't let him get away with it!”

Too infuriated to speak, Dep could only nod her agreement. Joseph's name had already made the top of her shit list, but now she mentally circled his and John's with a big, red pen. She ran into the Spread Eagle and up to her room, returning with four packaged, remote bombs and a detonator. A little project she'd been working on.

“Grace,” she rasped, climbing behind the steering wheel. Her throat dry, she was almost too angry to speak.

“Yeah?”

“Get the Widow Maker keys from Mary May.”

“Oh, hell yeah!” Grace ran off, an extra spring in her step.

She pressed the button on her two-way radio. “Nick Rye? Nick! You awake?”

The radio buzzed. “Dep? That you?”

Nick launched into a tirade of apologies, but she stopped him abruptly and told him about her plan.

She said, “What's done is done. So can you give us cover or what?”

“Oh yeah. I'll give you cover and then some. Been wanting to do this for a long, long time. Ever since they built that fuckin thing, it's been haunting my dreams! Goddamned eyesore.”

Hurk returned with a half of an American flag and waved it, climbing into the back of the pickup. “BRING IT ON!” He doubled over, coughing. “Ugh, smoke inhalation.”

Sharky joined him in back, manning the machine gun. Jess hesitated, then climbed into the passenger side of the truck. The cougar tried to follow her, but she stopped Peaches with her boot.

“Get outta here!” Jess shouted, pointing to the woods. “This is one mission you're stayin out of.”

To her chagrin, the cougar obeyed the huntress, running for the wilderness. She gunned the gas, weaving around piles of debris and dying fires. Dozens of Resistance fighters ambled about like zombies, stunned, or clustered in groups, debating what should be done. They spotted the truck, Hurk's flag rippling in the wind.

“Get some!” Sharky yelled to them. “Come on! We're hittin those fuckers back! Revenge time, baby!”

Dep watched through the rear-view as the fighters scrambled into whatever cars they could find. A few jumped in the back of her pickup. Mary May emerged from a house, her hands bloody, wiping them on a rag. Dark circles pooled under her eyes. She took one look at the convoy and hopped into a jeep, shouting instructions to those staying behind. Overhead, the shadow of Nick Rye's plane blotted out the sun.

The Widow Maker pulled onto the road, pushing debris and cars aside like they were Hot Wheels. Grace wailed on the horn. Deputy slammed hers in response, an appropriate battle cry for what was about to happen. The Resistance convoy sparkled in the morning light, cars and trucks barreling at top speeds to the east, into the rising sun.

Watching the towering statue of Joseph come into view over the hilltops, Deputy muttered, “Merry Christmas, Father Seed. Here comes your present.”

“Yeah, that's nice and all,” Jess remarked, one elbow resting on the window. “You got a plan to back that up?”

“I'm workin on it as I go.”

Jess snorted and removed her boots from the dash. “We can't just roll up there with all them Peggies in attendance. They're gonna be armed to the teeth. More'n likely this's a trap. He must know how you are, by now.”

 _Whaddaya mean, how I am?_ She frowned. She hadn't thought of that. “You got a better idea?”

“Matter of fact, yeah, I do.” Jess leaned in close. “Listen here. We're gonna take a brief detour to a friend of mine.”

“What kinda friend?” She hoped this wasn't another case of a paranoid prepper hiding out in his bunker full of piss jugs and porno mags.

Jess beamed devilishly at her. “Let's just say, I hope you police-types can ride western.” 


	3. The Reunion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playlist for your ear-pleasure: "Treasure" Company of Thieves, "Gutless" Hole, "Phenomena" Yeah Yeah Yeahs

**A few hours later...**

The Peggies gathered at the base of the cliff, assembled close to the very spot where some of their unfortunate siblings had splattered, taking the 'leap of faith'. The statue was bathed in the harsh August sunlight. A hundred tanned, oily faces gazed up at the polished, stone face of their beloved Father. The tribute to Joseph stood on the crest of the mountain, his raised left hand and stern gaze facing the Whitetail Mountains, as if to say 'Come at me, motherfuckers. I had my slaves build my own statue!'.

The Pegs, organized into rows, fawned up in dreamy reverence, drugged bliss, and reverent contemplation. Or, in the Deputy's case, with a lax sort of contempt, like looking at a hairball puked by the family cat in a weird place, such as the inside of a shoe, the top of a bookshelf, or perfectly hacked-up across the space bar to one's keyboard.

 _I don't know how they made that thing, but damn, that's impressive,_ was the thought that popped into her mind. She'd seen the statue before, on the flight to arrest the megalomaniac responsible for its construction. Had she known she was flying into the twisted web of his doomsday prophecy, she would have begged Whitehorse to turn them around. She wasn't a doomsday or prophecy kinda gal.

That felt like ages ago, and summer was almost over. Time seemed to stretch on and on, like the mud pies she and her siblings rolled out as kids. One day, when the bills were piling up in the bin by the fridge, she'd been so hungry, and the pies looked so much like chocolate, she'd tried a bite, only to vomit in her brother's lap. Thinking about her lost family, standing in a sea of armed strangers, made her feel small and empty inside, so she cleared her mind, replacing it with the usual quiet, bubbling anger. The heat was enough to make even the tamest dog frothing mad.

The Dep's patience, always in low supply, gave out. She lowered her rifle and sighed, glancing at the armed Peggie fighters to her left and right.

Sweat dripped down her spine. Still no word from the Father on high. If he was waiting for a standing ovation, they'd been standing there for over an hour. Maybe he wasn't even here. Maybe they were all hearing shit from the statue that she, a sane person, wasn't privy to. She sighed again and shifted in her scuffed, oversized boots, pulled off the Amazonian feet of a dead female Peggie they'd knocked out in some bushes earlier. The rest of her outfit wasn't much of an improvement, the dead woman's smell mixing with a hint of bliss oil, failing to mask the reek.

Tired of gawking at Joseph's giant face, Deputy could stand it no longer. She noted the position of the sun once, before turning to the Peggie next to her.

“Yo.” She nudged his elbow. He was hairy enough to be mistaken for a relative of Big Foot. When he didn't respond, she nudged him again, harder, in the kidney.

“HEY,” she said, using her police voice. “Get those hairballs outta your ears!”

“Whaddaya want?” he snapped finally, turning his head. “The Father is preaching soon! Be quiet, sister.”

“Oh, right.” She faked embarrassment. “But, see, I was just wondering-”

Cutting her off, a voice arose from the speakers installed within the statue. The Pegs raised their hands in prayer, or clasped them to their chests. She mirrored them, although without the empty, doting expression. Cool, calm, and paternal, Joseph Seed's voice drifted down and across them all in a tidal wave:

“My children! Today we gather here, to celebrate a victory against those who would interfere with our mission. Yesterday, with the help of John, and with the Lord's favor, we destroyed a pagan celebration thrown by the Resistance! They dared taunt us with their drunken revelry, but we were victorious in putting a stop to it!”

The Peggies cheered and hollered, but the Deputy remained silent, thinking of the five bodies under the sheets. While she ground her teeth in anger, Joseph continued:

“With their planes and with God's guiding hand, John and his pilots brought the wrath of heaven down on the sinners and their Fourth of July gathering, a holiday which I condemn as a false sacrament, a mockery, a celebration of this oppressive country which dares call itself 'Land of the Free', when so many have been crushed under its boot heels-”

The crowd went wild, and Joseph's words were lost. She wasn't paying much attention, anyway. She removed a fat, rolled cigar from the breast pocket of her vest.

“Hey pal, got a light?”

“What?” Distracted, Big Foot's eyes were raised to the statue.

“You know, a lighter? A match or somethin, to fire up this blunt with?”

“...What?!”

He turned, aghast, seeing the brown object jutting between the Dep's wine-colored lips. A skunky smell permeated the air, negating the miasma of the cultists by a small, blessed degree.

“H-hey, you can't smoke that! That's forbidden!”

“Aw, come on, it's a piny tobacco! There's no oregano in it.” She winked at him.

Others turned toward the commotion; she could feel their eyes on her. Three guards, one of them strapped in body armor, broke rank and started marching in her direction. She checked the angle of the sun over the mountains against her hand, fingers held together with the thumb tucked against the side of her palm.

She removed the unlit cigar from her mouth and held it to a beam of sunlight reflecting off another Peggie's sunglasses. Startled, he leaned so far back he could have been possessed.

“Dispose of that!” he yelped, batting the long thing away. “The Father will hear about this!”

“Reckon the Father's too busy jaw-flappin to hear much,” she told him. She flashed straight white teeth in a dishonest grin. “You got a lighter on you, or am I gonna have to march up that statue and beg Padre himself?”

“Drugs are a sin!” a woman in front of her hissed.

“That's the devil's lettuce!” someone else muttered. “You'll be punished!”

Dep cracked her neck. “Mmm, that's my problem, see. I ain't afraid of punishment. Got the pain tolerance of a dead armadillo. Aha!”

She snapped her fingers, high above her head, and took a match from behind her ear, lighting it with two fingers. She held the flame up to the blunt and took a few satisfied puffs, as the Peggies around her closed in...

 

“There. That's the, er, signal,” Sheriff Whitehorse mumbled, his mustache twisted with disdain. The huge, dark stallion he sat upon swished his long tail, swatting flies. Whitehorse lowered the binoculars and turned his torso in his saddle.

“You all ready? This is gonna go quick.” He drew his pistol from his belt.

“Hell yeah! I'm ready!”

Grace, atop her blonde mare, snapped, “Hurk, volume!”

“Sorry. Err, hell yeah, I'm ready.”

“Sharky, take that ridiculous thing off your head,” Jess Black growled. “It's gonna give you away.”

“Nuh-uh! I don't care what anyone says, it's still Christmas in July! Besides, it's like, symbolism n' shit. Come All Ye Faithful!”

Jess hawked and spit at him. Sharky pulled the charred Santa hat down over his ears. Jess spat again over the side of her horse.

“Everyone quiet down,” Sheriff Whitehorse hushed. He looked to the west, and nodded, tipping the wide brim of his hat. “Here comes Nick. Positions, people.”  
  
“Fuck yeah,” Grace murmured, her sniper rifle resting in her lap. Her horse seemed to sense her enthusiasm and pawed the ground anxiously, nostrils flaring. “Let's tear that statue a new one.”

Turning back to face the gathering, Whitehorse gripped the reins in one hand, murmuring, “Hold on, Rook. Don't do anything stupid...”

 

“Move aside! Who's the smart ass?”

The guards were almost on top of her at that point, shoving Pegs left and right to get to the source of the smoke. Deputy, eyes raised to the sky, enjoyed her last few puffs, before one of the guards ripped the blunt from her mouth. She hadn't been lying—there was no oregano inside, only enough stuff to send up plenty of smoke, indicating her position. He threw it in the dirt and squashed it under his boot heel.

“Rude,” she sulked, her words drowned out by Joseph's sermon above. The hood of her vest concealed her eyes, and she glowered at her feet. A pair of black aviators hid her face. For a few beats, as the guards stared at her, Joseph's voice was all she could hear, and it sent a proper shudder down her spine:

“And I say unto you, my children, do not weep for them that lose their gifts and their lives, for they have renounced the words of the Father. They have scorned the man who would love them, who would see them into the gates of paradise! If any man, or woman, raiseth their hand against me or my flock, you shall take arms against them, and go forth gladly into the battle mists! And, if a _woman_ scorns the Father, if she spits in the face of _God_ , then she is _twice_ the sinner as a man, for she was made a carrier, a vessel of light and love, but she hath chosen to forsake family, to carry darkness and sorrow!”

Dep rolled her eyes. “Now he's just bein a dick.”

“Watch your lang-, wait a sec!” The closest guard lunged and grabbed her by the upper arm, shaking her so hard her sunglasses fell askew.

“Lemme see your face, sinner!”

He ripped her hood back and the glasses off, exposing thick, shoulder-length brown hair streaked with gold. Her two black, angled eyebrows knit together in a prickly glare.

“Pull down her shirt!” the armored guard barked to the one holding her. He and the third guard held up their rifles, training them on her heart, her head. Her own assault rifle was strapped across her back, useless against such numbers.

She gasped in mock horror. “Please, sirs! That would be downright _indecent_ of a lady.”

The guard shook her violently. “Do it, or I will. NOW!”

She raised both hands as best as she could and, slowly, peeled down the collar of her wrinkled shirt, revealing the slashed, black WRATH tattoo above the swells of her breasts.

“It's her!” the guard shouted, letting go, shoving her to the ground. “It's the Deputy! The one John-”

Before he could finish his sentence, she swung her elbow and rammed him in the guts, doubling him over, then dealt another blow, jabbing between his shoulders, sending him sprawling. The other two guards raised their guns, preparing to fire, and she stared at the big, blue sky, not praying, only hoping her timing was correct.

Just as her bladder felt like it would let go, one of the guards pointed. “The _hell_ is that!?”

“Father, protect us!” the other wailed.

“About fuckin time,” Dep said under her breath.

A shadow glided over the crowd. It eclipsed the sun, and everything went dim for a moment. Thick, gray mist enveloped the entire crowd, rolling down from the cliffs. Above the startled, confused cries, Nick Rye's plane hummed as it zoomed in quick, tight zig-zags in front of the statue. Dep couldn't see into the cockpit, but she could see the aftermath of his and Kim's homemade smoke bombs, dumped from the plane and into the assembly by the dozen. She took advantage of the distraction and ducked, assault rifle jouncing against her back. She wove her way through layers of panicked cultists, headed for the cliffs.

Someone's flailing arm elbowed her in the face, knocking her to the ground. As she lay there, over the erupting chaos, Joseph's voice sounded from the speakers: “Do not panic! Be on your guard! The Resistance is attacking. Stay in formation. I repeat, stay in forma-”

The speakers cut off as Nick Rye banked sharply and flew in close.

“How about a little rhinoplasty, Father?” he laughed. He strafed the statue, neatly shearing off the tip of the nose, which crashed to the earth with a loud crack.

Deputy had little time to celebrate, rolling to her feet and running across the field at top speed, her thighs and calves screaming, the grapple gear under her uniform chafing against her flesh. She got as far as the rock wall, securing her harness in place, catching her hook on the platform, before gunshots sprayed like metal hornets on either side of her.

Startled, she let go of the rope, plummeting to the ground, landing hard, her shins rattling pain up and down her legs. Reaching for the assault rifle, the cultists were on her before she could even touch it, surrounding her in a half-circle. Too slow. Panicking, she felt her legs turn to gelatin.

 _This would be so much easier if I could just parachute in like the movies,_ she thought sadly.

“Freeze!” one bellowed at her. “Don't fucking move, or I'll-”

“Look out!”

The Peggies dove to the side as a massive black stallion galloped into them. Shots rang out, loud, singular bursts from a chambered gun. The cultists went down, clutching at their wounds, their throats plugged with blood. More horses slammed into their ranks, their riders firing into the crowd, dozens of Peggies dropping like flies.

Whitehorse, Grace, Hurk, Tammy, Mary May, Sharky, Jess, Wheaty, and others from the Resistance, totaling twenty horseback-mounted fighters stormed the field.

“Where the fuck did they get those?” she heard a Peg shout in frustration. “John had all the horses sold off!”

She grinned. It turned out the cult hadn't robbed every household of its prized possessions, and the horses had been one secret the Resistance had kept from him, in an abandoned warehouse in eastern Holland County. Jess Black had been sneaking the starving horses and stable owners food, and they owed her a big favor.

Just then, a woman's airy voice cried with dismay over the PA system: “This is a cowardly act of vengeance! Fight them, all of you! Protect your Father with your very lives! Reinforcements are coming, but we need you to fight!”

“It's Faith!” she heard Tracey groan. “She's up there with him! Shit! You okay, Earl?”

The Sheriff had his back turned to her, but Dep knew how he felt about the mysterious, bewitching young woman in the white dress. That junkie sorceress had poisoned his mind and manipulated him, using his own family against him, something she found despicable. She gripped the blue rope tight, twisting it in her fingers, the black rings on her left hand pinching her flesh.

“Good! Two for the price of one!” Jess Black snarled, echoing Dep's sentiment. She wheeled her horse to face the Pegs, arrows flying left and right, each time she loosed one, Pegs collapsed to the ground in twitching, gasping heaps.

“What are ya waitin for, the fuckin elevator? Get climbing, Deputy! I'll cover you.”

She returned to the ropes, going hand over hand. It would be a long, arduous few minutes, but the payoff would be a spectacle worthy of Independence Day. The four remote bombs and a detonator were duct taped to her sides, adding extra weight. Glancing below, the combatants already the size of dolls in her vision, she watched the second wave of Resistance fighters slam the cultists from the east, riding in on the stolen armed vehicles and ATVs, the Widow Maker leading the charge.

But the Resistance had poked the hive, and the soldiers emerged to defend their leader. On the north side of the field, thirty of Faith's angels, trailing green bliss clouds, ran like rabid dogs straight for the Resistance. She paused to gawk, dangling in midair, pressing her sweating back into the rock. She heard planes droning in the distance. They would be there any minute, putting them all at great peril. Time was running out. She scanned the skies for the Affirmation, swallowing a lump in her throat.

The silver plane was nowhere in sight. Evidently, John had better things to do. As she fought against her own exhaustion, her two-way radio buzzed and a familiar, holier-than thou voice purred,

“Why do you fight me, Deputy? Is it because of your own guilt? Are you trying to make amends for something you've done? Have you not had enough death over the past two days? My pilots are going to make short work of your friends.”

Her sweating face turned a shade of red. Joseph! Fucking bastard. Farther out, in the open air, the planes attacked Nick Rye and the fighters on the ground, their guns spitting hellfire. Screams rose up like gusts of wind in a storm. She ground her teeth and dug her heels into the rock. Not much farther now.

Joseph's voice goaded her onward: “Come to the top of the statue, if you dare. I'll be here, and we can talk. Face to face. John may have failed to sway you, but I have all the patience in the world. Goodbye, Deputy.”

With that, the radio cut off. Over the statue's shoulder, Nick Rye's plane rocked violently left to right as two enemy planes chased him. He buzzed over the line:

“I can't take much more! I'm gonna have to back off! If I don't make it...ya'll take care of Kim and the baby!”

The vision of his child, growing up without a father, rekindled her wrath. She reached the base of the statue, sides begging her to rest. She stumbled over to the first grappling spot, a weak point left behind from the statue's construction, a bit of intel Tammy had pried out of one of her prisoners. Speaking of torture, the muscles of her arms screamed in protest as she attempted to climb. Her shoulders couldn't take anymore.

“I can't do this,” she whimpered, halfway up Joseph's feet, her own feet dangling in the air. “Fuck! Shit!”

No use. She slid down the rope, the fibers biting into her palms. As she descended, Peggies charged around the statue on either side. A few more seconds, and they would have her in their sights.

“Dep! Get inside that thang and blow it a new asshole!”

Addie's voice buzzed over her radio. The Tulip swooped in low, firing on the Pegs, covering her. As soon as her boots hit the ground, she ran for the opened double doors and ducked inside the muffled darkness...

 

...Soon all four charges were placed on each floor. She hunkered behind a dusty crate on the fourth level, the wind whistling between the cracks. In the din of the statue, she slunk by three Peggies. They were guarding the ladder up to the final level, to Joseph himself.

She reached the hole to the lower floor. From there, she could grapple her way out, sliding easily down the rest of the statue, before setting off the charges. Joseph and Faith would die in spectacular fashion, a fate worthy of the unpatriotic cult leader.

Except there was one problem.

She was PISSED.

There was Joseph, only a few dozen feet above. So close, yet she couldn't touch him. Killing him in such a fashion would only make him right about her, about the authoritarian police. Did the oath taken when she'd accepted her badge mean nothing? He deserved to be arrested, thrown in jail, for the news networks and Youtube commentators to mock, until the end of his days. Yet here she was, running away, like a scared little girl! Maybe she was scared. Maybe she was looking to hurt John by harming his brother. Maybe she just wanted to look at his face one more time and decide for herself if he was right...

Whatever the reason, her pride got the better of her, and she picked up a nail from the floor, throwing it as far as she could across the room with a clang.

“What was that?” one of the guards asked.

“Sounded like it came from over there,” another answered, pointing. He left his post to investigate.

She crept up behind the two by the ladder, rifle in hand. Gunfire would draw more Peggies, so she hovered the butt of her gun over the closest one's head. But before she could strike, a pair of strong hands grabbed her by the shoulders shoulders. She let out a startled yell as they threw her to the ground.

“Bastard!” she spat, and trained her rifle on the cultist behind her. But the others were fast, probably hopped up on amphetamines and bliss, and they drew their weapons first. Dep shut her eyes and braced for the end. The shots never came. She opened her eyes, to see the closest Peggie standing over her.

“Thought you could sneak past us?” he growled.

“Ya'll ain't exactly the brightest crayons in the box,” she sneered.

The butt of his rifle slammed into her diaphragm, and she saw stars. While she doubled over, wheezing, they seized her arms. She wrestled against the them, biting, kicking. The muzzle of an assault rifle pressed between her shoulder blades, and she went limp.

“Search the bitch.”

The guard patting her down gloated, “The Father wants a word with you. You're lucky he wants you alive, or I'd have gladly put a hole in your head.”

He ripped the detonator from her belt, his eyes widening, and gave it to one of the others. They removed the batteries from it and threw them at her, bouncing them off her collar bone. Her gun went next, followed by her side arm. They relieved her of her vest and belt, stripping her down to the Peggie shirt, jeans, and boots.

Then they marched her up the ladder and through the hole.

There, clutching his holy book, stood Joseph Seed. He was even taller than she remembered, shirtless, his scars and tattoos displayed to the world on his shredded torso. His beard was shorter than John's, but there was a faint resemblance—good looks ran in that family, and that was about all that was good. His brown hair was pulled back into a man-bun. The yellow aviators were lowered over his eyes, intensifying his stare as he looked upon her.

Faith Seed clung to his side, her arms wrapped around one of his. Protectively, like a loving spouse or daughter, Dep couldn't decipher what role she played in his bizarro scheme. The 'white witch' regarded her, distrust shadowing her pretty face. Dimly, she recalled something about Faith being a hopeless addict when Joseph found her, giving her new life, or some sob story. She was too tired and aggravated to feel much of anything.

“Deputy,” Joseph greeted, polite and calm as ever. He nodded to the guards. “You three may go.”

The guards exchanged looks. One of them spat at her feet as they left.

“Padre,” she responded coldly, straightening as best she could, her shoulders throbbing. She was hyper-aware that she was weak, and Joseph looked like he could throw her off the side of his statue without breaking a sweat.

The Father leered at her, asking, “Did the late Deputy Ramirez teach you Spanish? Or did you pick it up on your own?”

She stiffened, her mouth going dry upon hearing the dead man's name. “What do you know about it?”

“The better question to ask, is what do I know about you?”

“My life ain't none of your business!” she snarled, and took a step forward.

Faith latched onto Joseph tighter, her free hand digging for something in her pocket. Above, a cult helicopter descended on the statue...

“Oh, but it is my business. I've told you before,” Joseph said, spreading his arms, rosary dangling from his right hand. He stepped in close, within melee distance. Their eyes met, and she felt a magnetic pull, like an electric zap, to walk right into those hands, which promised comfort, healing.

She shook her head. To her own shock, she watched him reach out and place a hand on her shoulder, above her heart. The strength, the restraint in those fingers as they gripped her, almost won her over, but her legs were rooted in place. It had been a long time since someone touched her with that much care. Even John hadn't shown that kind of tenderness.

“You aren't here by chance or by fate,” he said gently. “There is a reason God has delivered you unto us. I once called you Hell, and you have shown me nothing but that. But you can still be saved.”

The spell broke, and she tensed, remembering she was a woman of the law. Joseph removed his hand as quickly as he'd placed it.

He turned his back to her and stepped toward the helicopter. She crouched down, pulling Jess Black's knife from her boot. She advanced on him, the blade held at her side.

“What are you doing!?” Faith cried.

Frowning, the Father turned around. He didn't react to the weapon, but lowered his hands, disappointed. Unafraid to die. Good.

“Joseph!” Faith flitted between them in an instant. “No!”

Deputy hesitated, thinking of her sister, how they'd found her collapsed in the bathroom of a junkie house, dead from a fentanyl overdose. Did she really have the guts to stab her way through this manipulated woman, to get to him? At what point did the scales tip against her? How much blood would it take?

Joseph seemed to read her thoughts. He raised his chin and his voice, asking haughtily, “What's stopping you, Deputy? Could it be your conscience? Maybe if you had listened to me, your friends wouldn't be out there dying right now. If you had left well enough alone, we wouldn't be in this situation. But then again, you always had a taste for blood, didn't you?”

Anger flashed in her eyes. The muscles in her arms tensed. Faith crushed something in her hand. Green vapor oozed out of her fist into the room, her nostrils filled with the scent of pine, and everything went soft. She lowered the knife, enormous tears falling down her face. Damn it, why was she crying?

“No?” Joseph stepped toward the opening in the wall, where the helicopter had dropped a line. Faith turned and ran for it, holding out her hand. Joseph gave her the holy book and gripped the rope with one hand, his other encircling Faith's waist.

Dep ran after them, but she'd waited too long. They were already taking off.

“I will see you again, before the end,” Joseph called down. She only glared up at him, the knife at her side. “Think about what's best for your soul!”

The chopper gained height, kicking up dust. They left her, alone, dosed with bliss, her face wet with tears.

Except she wasn't alone. At the sound of applause, she turned around.

“VERY good,” John Seed complimented, clapping and stepping out of the shadows. He raised a gun to a woman's head: Joey Hudson. Dep groaned aloud. The green mist had been blown away by the helicopter's draft, but both John and Hudson were sparkling. For a moment, she wasn't sure if they were real, or perhaps phantoms, summoned by the bliss. Better to ere on the side of caution.

“Let her go!” Dep raised the knife.

“Put it  _down,”_ John warned lazily. He pressed the muzzle of his gun harder against Hudson's temple. “Before you put someone's eye out. I won't ask again.”

 


	4. Gimme Shelter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playlist for your ear-pleasure: "No One Left" Failure, " "First and Last Waltz" Nickel Creek, "Appalachia" Chelsea Wolfe

_Watch the sun rise, you still feel your phantom head_  
_Full of phantom thoughts you never had, never said_  
_Careful what you dream, the ground is full of gardens cold_  
_Just like Jesus, the loser with the heart of gold_  
  
_Don’t you worry_  
_There’s nobody_  
_Don’t feel sorry_  
_There’s no one left_  
  
_Watch yourself now, bouncing off the future past_  
_All alone not a soul to love, a code to crack_  
_Be careful who you want, the screen is full, the pool is cold_  
_You’re just a stranger, a loser with a heart of gold_  
  
-"No One Left", Failure

* * *

“Kill him!” Hudson cried. Her hands were bound behind her back, but John hadn't gagged her. “Do it Rook!”

But Deputy set the knife on the ground instead, kicking it away. Outside the statue, gunshots rang, plane engines roared, creating a hailstorm of sound, so loud they had to wait between bursts to speak. She held her hands in the air, never taking her eyes off John. He looked different to her, somehow.

When things quieted down some, he shoved Hudson forward, marching her to the aperture in the wall. The Deputy watched, helpless, as he made her stand inches before the lethal drop, wind whipping her black braid. Enemy planes darted by, close enough to see Hudson's head peeking out of the wall, and Dep could only guess what atrocities John the Baptist had in store. The man she thought she'd come to know was a lie, she told herself. A fiction.

This was the real John, standing before her now, with the barrel of a gun pressed to her friend's skull.

“I'm sorry, Rook,” Hudson cracked. “Fucker snuck up on me.”

“I found this one trying to give you backup,” he said, giving Hudson a shake. “She took out all the other guards, trying to get to you. A real hero's effort! What should we do with her, hmm?”

“John-” Deputy faltered. She looked from him, his overcoat flapping in the breeze, to Hudson, her sleek hair framing her ashen face. There was no way she would survive another round in the dungeon. Not again. It would break her.

Dep's hard glare softened to a pleading look. “Take me.”

“No, Rook!” Hudson shouted. “Don't negotiate with this asshole!”

John silenced her with a hard yank on her braid, drawing her head back.

“I think we've done this before.” He stalked toward the Deputy, his gun trained on his hostage. He raised his eyebrows and with an arrogant smile held up two fingers. “That's twice now you've volunteered yourself in her stead. You sure you want to do it again?”

 _You leave me no choice,_ she thought. She muttered, “Just make the trade or do what you're gonna do.”

She clenched her fists, unclenched them. She was burning with so many things she wanted to say, so many questions she had to ask. But not with Hudson's life at stake. It would have to wait, and she wondered if there would even be a time for questions again. Wherever he was planning on taking her, her future didn't look bright.

“Let's go.” He motioned to her, not with the rifle, but with his hand, holding it out to her. Their eyes met once, blue courting hazel. A flicker of recognition there, or was she imagining things? She knew better than to hope. Hudson watched the exchange, wary. He turned to face her.

“YOU stay put. If you follow, I'll shoot her. Understood?”

Hudson's lips thinned with doubt. “Yes.”

Her wide, dark eyes followed the Deputy as she cautiously took his hand, the hardness in his grip frightening her. No tenderness there. He pulled her to him, jamming the tip of the gun against her jaw, and she clenched her teeth. He spun her around roughly and marched her to the hatch.

“If you try to be hero again, or if any Resistance members get any bright ideas, you had better say goodbye to your Rookie now.”

“Fuck you, JOHN,” Hudson spat. “You're out of your god-damned mind! All of you Seeds!”

He ignored the accusation, making Deputy go down the ladder first. She remembered Hudson's warning to her at the party, the bliss worsening her paranoia. Heart pounding, she followed John down each floor, imagining the crosshairs of the assault rifle burning a hole in her flesh. When they got to the lowest floor, she tried to ask him something, but he only pushed her to the exit.

They emerged into daylight. He grabbed her from behind and clamped a hand over her mouth, moving them through knee-high grass down the hill to the west. The Peggies and Resistance fighters swarmed the statue, too engaged in fighting to notice two people slinking off through the brush. Smoke and bliss bombs exploded around them, setting thick, green and gray clouds adrift.

“Mmmph!” she growled, fighting against him like an animal, trying to scream. His hand smothered her, his arms locked tight in an aggressive bear-hug. He let go and forced her down a steep, rocky embankment, onto the dirt road below, keeping his gun on her the entire time. Still in a bliss-induced haze, she didn't have the wherewithal to test him. Only when they were covered by the shadow of the hill did he lower his weapon. While they caught their breath, the battle above them raged on.

She heard horses galloping, guns firing, shouts and whoops of triumph from the Peggies. She hoped Whitehorse would call a retreat soon.

“This way,” John said. He started pulling her towards a camouflaged boat-plane parked on the strip. “Gonna take a little trip.”

 _Like hell we are._ She would be damned if she was going back to that nightmare bunker, with his bloody trophies hanging by their limbs. Hudson was right. He WAS insane. She'd been a fool to think otherwise.

“LET GO!” She kicked out, her back pressed against his chest, trying to break his grip. No use, the climb had all but drained her, and he had energy to spare.

“Help me! Someone HELP!”

“Shut up!” he hissed, clamping a hand over her mouth again. She was about to bite him, when he spun her around and grabbed both sides of her face, leaning in so close their noses almost touched. Those intense eyes of his gazed straight into hers, then flicked up at the road, and she realized he was afraid. For a moment, everything went green and cloudy. She was lost.

She started to plead, “John, please-!”

He silenced her with a kiss, his head tilting slightly as his lips pressed into hers, hands pulling her into him. She froze, shocked. Maybe it was the bliss, but it felt like all her nerves were shocking her at once. The fog cleared, and she was standing in the dirt road with him again.

He pulled away, and said, “We have to get out of here.”

“But the others!” She glanced back at the statue, breathless.

“The Resistance is losing. It's over. Joseph planned this.”

Deputy spat, “And you let him do it! I hate your fuckin guts!”

She kicked him savagely, her boot heel glancing off his shin, but he may as well have been made of steel. He didn't even react to it.

“You can't help them. More reinforcements are coming,” he said simply.

Curses rolled on her tongue, but she doubled over, a psychedelic wave of green and flower petals distorting her vision. Reality bent sharply like a bad television signal, threatening to snap off.

“What IS this shit?” she wailed.

“Panic bliss.” He sounded miles away. “A variant of the bliss Faith invented. You're in no shape to fight, Deputy. Come on, before someone spots us.”

He took her by the hand and guided her to the plane. He helped her into the back seat. She rested and watched with wide, bloodshot eyes as he started up the engine. He brought the plane parallel with the road, lifting off in a howl of wind. The statue was soon below them. Her stomach lurched—she was a fair flier, but the bliss was making her queasy—and she clung to the metal frame with one hand, her face green.

“Hang on!” he hollered back at her.

Three Peggies tailed him. She blinked and shook her head, making sure they weren't an illusion. And weren't they and John on the same side? Then, the radio up front crackled loud enough for her to hear:

“There he is!”

“You weren't supposed to be here!”

“He's escaping with the outsider!”

“Traitor! Judas!”

“Bring that plane down!”

John switched the radio off and banked the plane sharply to the right, hugging the statue. They flew in a tight crescent, the cliffs rushing by. The three bogeys dogged them relentlessly, but he wasn't the cult's ace pilot for nothing. He dodged and outmaneuvered them every time, but they were catching up.

Feeling useless, Dep searched the back seat, hands clawing at the floor. She found a spare machine gun, and propped it out the opening in the back, wobbling a little before steadying herself. Seeing double, she waited for her vision to clear, before firing a string of bullets at the nearest plane. She missed, but the leader backed off anyway, the other two closing in, a pair of vengeful hawks.

John scooped the plane low, almost to the tree line, just as the two bogeys opened fire, splintering wood and pine, severing a few trees in half.

“Fuck!” she cried. “We gotta lose these assholes!”

A gentle hand squeezed her shoulder. She turned, to see the glowing apparition of Faith sitting next to her. _Is this what you wanted, Deputy? To turn John against his family? Is it because yours is all gone? Is that why you lash out, like an abused puppy?_

Shocked, she opened her mouth, but he shouted first: “Hold on!”

Faith vanished. Her stomach sank to her feet as the plane barrel-rolled to the left and turned so hard she thought they would drop out of the sky. Her teeth clamped down on her tongue, drawing blood. He leveled out and realigned them...straight into the path of the oncoming planes. Accelerated. Closer. Closer! They would hit head-on if he didn't move soon.

“John...” she whimpered. She shook her head, trying to clear the fog in her brain. _Fucking Faith and her stoner perfume!_ Her temper jumped back down her throat as the oncoming planes were almost on top of them.

She ducked, yelping, “Holy shit! Pull back! Pull back!”

He accelerated instead, opening fire, and the two bogeys split in the nick of time as his plane cut down the middle. One of them turned too hard, clipping the top of a tree, wavering in the air before it nosedived into a hill.

From the floor, Faith's lips tickled as she whispered in Dep's ear, _There's still time. You can still join us. You can atone for your sins. None is too great for the Father to forgive. He believes in you!_

She groaned into the seat, “Shut UP.”

Faith smiled kindly, before vanishing into thin air.

The last Peggie recovered, circling them. A familiar yellow aircraft swooped in to help. He switched the radio back on, just in time for them to hear Nick Rye yell:

“Dep! Just got word from Hudson! You in there? I sure hope so, otherwise this is just helping John! Hang on!” Nick fired and brought the enemy plane down in flames. It was just the two of them now, orbiting the statue.

Deputy gazed down at the battlefield. Half of Angel's Peak was burning, or soaked in mint-green bliss clouds. He turned them west, the brilliant sun flaring over the right wing of the plane. For a brief moment, with the silhouette of the blue sky, boundless mountains perfectly framed by the cockpit window, she relaxed.

 _Maybe I'm high as a kite, but that's beautiful._ She looked down, watching him work the controls of the plane. He seemed to know them as intimately as a lover. _No wonder he likes flying. It's the ultimate freedom._

A blast rocked the back of the plane, and she flew forward, her head slamming into the back of the seat...

...From his spot on the hilltop, Sheriff Whitehorse watched the ordeal in the skies. He was still mounted on his horse. John's plane flew low overhead, and there she was, in the back seat, holding on for dear life.

“ROOK!” he cried.

He raised his pistol at the plane, at the cockpit, unsure of what he wanted to do, what the hell was even happening. Tracey Lader, who had been with him since Faith and the prison, brought her horse skidding to a halt next to his. Her mount's flanks were streaked with dirt and blood.

“Easy Sheriff,” she calmed him. She put a hand on his gun arm and squeezed it. “They're gone. We gotta get our people off the hill now.”

Whitehorse swore and lowered his hand, wheeling his horse to face the planes. They were nearing the western curve of the Henbane. Nick Rye's plane tailed John's camouflaged one, but neither of them saw the enemy plane gain altitude from behind a hill and give chase. Whitehorse shouted into his two-way on the Resistance channel, but it was too late.

“I'm hit! I'm hit!” Nick Rye yelled. He peeled away, and the rest of the shots meant for him struck the back of John's plane instead.

Deputy ducked as bullets thudded into the metal behind her. He fought against the yoke, but he couldn't level them out, the plane pitching horrendously like a kite caught in a gale. The plane careened dangerously fast, trimming the trees of their tops, before John managed to pull them out of the dip, her stomach hamster-wheeling.

 _Shit! They're really trying to kill us!_ she thought. _So much for brothers in Christ..._

“Up here!” he shouted. She climbed and sat beside him, head smacking the ceiling in the process.

She rubbed her throbbing cranium. It would be a miracle if she had any brain cells left, if they survived. A groan from somewhere behind them, followed by an unsettling silence from the belly of the plane. She looked out the window, to see liquid raining down. They were jettisoning fuel at an alarming rate. She turned, her face going pale.

“Down?”

“Yeah.”

Still fighting to keep the plane steady, his gaze was transfixed out the window. Their plane didn't graze trees this time, but folded into them. Wood splintered and screeched, and the engine stuttered. The nose propeller dislodged, went flailing over the roof, a few more inches and it would have speared into the cockpit. Dep looked behind. The bogey pursuing them had pulled back. Not good.

With a snarl, John relinquished the controls. Nothing but the ground now, coming at them fast. Just before impact, he twisted and pulled her head down, covering her body with his own as the they thudded into the ground.

The plane rocked violently about. It spun 360 degrees, throwing them around the cockpit, a carnival ride from hell, and she lost her grip. She was flung out the back of the plane, skidding along a wing, a slowdown that probably saved her life. She collapsed into soft mud and reeds, on the banks of the Henbane, curled up like baby Moses. The plane pitched wildly onto its side, before coming to a rest against two thick pine trees, nose facing downward like a drunkard collapsed with his arms spread.

After a minute, as the birds returned to the trees, chirping their annoyance, and the mosquitoes and midges clouded again, Deputy realized she was still alive, or some version of it. For a long while, she lay there, stunned, certain she was wounded. Any second now, she'd breathe, and the pain would come crashing in...

_Once, as a child, she and her brother had raced their rusty junkyard bikes down the steep road next to their driveway. She had lifted her feet off the pedals, wind rushing in her ears, beating her brother by what felt like miles (only a few yards). As she'd looked back to boast her victory, her forward tire snagged a rock, and she flew over the handlebars, crashed so hard she warped the frame of her bike in the process. Crunching into the dirt, it had taken a few seconds for the pain to come, the breath wouldn't come to her lungs. When she found her breath, Mama came running at the screams. Dep had landed on her arm, breaking her wrist so bad her hand hung as if a surgeon snipped the nerves. There was no money for a doctor, Mama had done her best to set it herself._

_Papa was only pissed she'd wrecked her bike, and she was refused dinner that night, and no meals the next, until Mama had to sneak her food in her apron._

You're gonna learn what it is, to be hungry _, Papa had told her, standing in the doorway to her room. At that point, he knew beating her wouldn't sink in; she was far too stubborn, so he had to try out new methods to discipline his oldest daughter._ Think you can just break whatever you want, waste our money? You gonna learn what it is to have nothin, girl.

“Don't shut the door,” she moaned into the mud. She spoke her dead brother's name for the first time in years, though she wouldn't remember: “Vin's hidin in here with me! He's laughin, right now, under the bed! Hey Vincent! Come out!”

She'd bent down to look under the bed. Only, instead of Vin, there were dozens of big, white flowers, like poppies. And a man's voice, humming church hymns, listening to the whole exchange of her memories like someone pressing his ear to the confessional doors.

 _Joseph?_ she thought. _What're you doing in my dreams?_

“ _Blessed are the children of the Lord,”_ he sang. _“And blessed art thou, Deputy, slayer of men and women. Ramirez is under here with me. So is the man you shot in the back. Would you care to speak with them?”_

She screamed aloud: “GET OUT!”

“What was that?” someone called.

With a gasp, she shot up out of the mud. A doe grazing nearby took off with a snort and a flick of her tail. It was nighttime. She'd been laying there for hours, conked out on Faith's bliss cocktail. With a quiet groan, she got to her feet, scanning the area, and smiled at her good fortune. _I know this place!_ They had crashed below the notorious Bridge of Tears, right on the banks of the Henbane, a few trees and bushes on the western hills hiding the plane from the road. Torchlights and Peggie hymns drifted down from those same hills.

John's men, searching for him.

“Down there! I see the plane!”

“John? Are you there?”

“The Father has forgiven you! Come out, if you're still alive!”

 _Someone outta teach them how to lie proper-like,_ she thought. She sloshed through the watery reeds and reached the plane. John was crumpled against one of the cockpit doors, a purple goose-egg breaking on his pale forehead. She checked his pulse. Still alive, his heartbeat strong. Seizing him by the arm, she gritted her teeth and pulled him from the wreck, hoisting him across her shoulders the way she'd learned in training.

He was lighter than she expected, but her spine tensed under his weight all the same. She had to act fast. Looking up at the bridge, an idea formed. She swam with him across the river, air bubbles in his overcoat keeping him afloat. The cool water helped wake her up, taking some of the agony out of her joints. She dragged him ashore and searched the base of the bridge.

 _PLEASE be here,_ she prayed, searching the weeds. _Yes. YES!_

She found a rope, tied to the ground, connected to the grappling point above, which was mounted to a cluster of pipes and plywood: a prepper shelter, one she had discovered, about a month back. She'd helped the locals remove the bodies hanging from the bridge, put there by the man she was now saving. They'd taken down the Eden's Gate flag, too, and burned it. They had buried the bodies at their abandoned home across the river, then made a few modifications so one didn't have to swing like Tarzan to get to the shelter.

She climbed the bridge first, using a hand-crank and pulley system, taking much of the work out of it (no fucking way she was getting up there, otherwise). She seized John's rope, and hooked it into the pulley, cranking all of his dead weight up, one revolution at a time. Gritting her teeth, her palms stinging, she dropped the crank and hoisted his limp, heavy body over the ledge and into the shelter.

Deputy peeked between two slabs of plywood. The Peggies found the plane, but they hadn't seen her. She watched their torches float in the darkness. John moaned once behind her, and she chewed her lower lip, thinking. Dragging him into the back of the shelter, she placed him on the sleeping pad, tying both his wrists around a pipe.

“Sorry,” she told him. “But I don't trust you. Can still remember what those bodies looked like up there, swingin in the breeze. Your men had that entire family murdered. I doubt even Dr. Phil could help ya'll with your fuckin problems.”

He moaned again in response, eyes rolled back into his handsome head. She examined the bump, but it only looked like a mild concussion. He would be awake soon: nauseated, sore, but alive. Lucky bastard. She would make him regret it. Mama and Papa didn't raise no softy.

Once he woke up, she would take her time with him, and get the answers she needed. She'd learned a thing or two about interrogations. Picking up a square vial of bliss oil from the shelf, she sat in a corner and patiently waited for him to wake up.


	5. Under the Bridge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playlist for your ear-pleasure: "Don't Tell" Royal Blood, "Rich" Yeah Yeah Yeahs, "Sweet is Good" Massive Attack, "Man For All Seasons" Billy Idol

At some point in the night, the Deputy must have nodded off. When she awoke with a jolt, the dusty yellow sun hung overhead. Remembering everything in an instant, she immediately checked the corner of the room. John was still there, asleep. She tugged on the ropes binding his hands, making sure they were tight, with enough room for circulation.

Against her better judgment, she seized his hands in her own, running her fingers along them, thinking of everything they were capable of. Intense pleasure and pain. She had the luck of experiencing both--others, not so much. She raised her eyes to the metal beam, where the bodies had hung only a few weeks ago.

 _Might be a mercy, if I messed them up some,_ the intrusive thought came like a shoulder-devil. _Then John couldn't lay another hand on anyone. But he'd also never fly again..._

She felt the bump on his forehead, resting her palm against his flushed skin. The lump had gone down, leaving only a quarter-sized bruise. Blushing, she took her hand away. Even there, asleep, tied to a wall with waterlogged clothes, he was hopelessly good-looking.

“Pretty boy. You're gonna get what's comin,” she muttered, dragging her fingers through her own tangled nest of hair.

She considered the bliss oil in the corner, and tried to recall what she'd hallucinated yesterday, but nothing came to mind. She was only left with a deep sense of longing, as if she'd returned from a wonderful dream. Dep checked the distance between her captive's feet and the shelf. The oil was well out of range, and she doubted he would have the strength to try anything. Then again, this was John Seed. He always found some way to surprise her.

Once, he'd intended to torture a confession from her, but instead he freed her, and there, in his torture chamber, they'd become lovers. _Oh yes, haven't forgotten about that, have we? Can't let that one slip from the memory banks._

Feeling antsy, she went into the other room and switched on the radio, scanning for updates. The only station that came in clear was the government one: something about North Korea shutting down all communications and preparing for war. Tensions between the USA and Russia. The states were on high alert.

She was almost grateful, that most of her family was already in the grave. One sibling remained, an older brother, whom she wasn't close with. All she knew was that he lived somewhere in the mountains of West Virginia, her birthplace and childhood home for ten years. Hard to picture it nuked off the face of the earth. Probably an improvement.

All around her, birds sang and twittered. The grappling hooks clinked in the wind against their rungs. The river lapped at the legs of the bridge. A chill ran through her body as the station went dead. She shut the radio off, suddenly aware of how quick, how short her breath came. She did an inventory of their food and water, mostly freeze dried MREs, enough stocked to last a month or more. What an absurd idea, building a shelter underneath a bridge! It was also ingenious; no one would think to look there. After pawing through the collection of books and maps, she decided it was time to get the caked mud and dried Peggie blood off her.

Deputy checked her surroundings below: nothing but the iron legs of the bridge, the river and its sandy banks. She grabbed the ropes and lowered herself to the brown sand. She secured the line to the nearest bridge leg, and stripped to her underwear, discarding the stiff, soiled clothes. The Henbane moved slowly, and she swam out into deep, cold waters. She ducked under the surface, finding comfort in murky darkness. A few fish passed by, oblivious to her or the troubles of the world. She broke the surface and sighed, scrubbing her shoulder-length hair as best as she could.

Not even realizing it, she'd retoxified herself with bliss, but it would take a while to kick in. Had she listened to Virgil and helped out the Cougars more, perhaps someone would have informed her that the water was saturated with the stuff.

She washed her clothes next, rinsing off as much of the filth as she could. Glad to be clean at last, she sat on a rock, waiting for her clothes to dry in the sun. She eased against the boulder, a smile playing across her lips. Her little break was short-lived. Thunder boomed in the distance. _Figures_. She rose, and pulled the moist garments back on. The secondhand Peggie boots she hid in the reeds, too big and too damp to bother with.

Another peal of thunder rolled down from the mountains. Black clouds gathered overhead. Rain pattered loudly against the bridge in big, swollen drops. As she climbed, the downpour intensified into a silver curtain, soaking her through. Mist thickened above the river and foliage, and soon the shelter was surrounded by walls of soft gray.

Looking down, Dep thought she saw someone, a woman in a white dress, examine her abandoned shoes, prancing off into the mist, but that was downright silly. When she reached the top, she found John hadn't moved at all. She went over to him, keeping her distance. Clucked her tongue. Still sleeping like a baby, even with his arms tied above his head. Maybe she should slap him.

There was no need. John's blue eyes snapped open. One booted foot lashed out, tripping her. She fell to her side, and rolled out of the way of his legs.

“Nice try,” she hissed, rising to her feet. She seized a hammer and screwdriver hanging from a peg board, unsure what she would do with them.

John pulled against his restraints, wiggling his numb fingers.

“Deputy,” he rasped. “Get me out of this.”

“Not a chance in hell.”

He appeared hurt. She knew better.

“Haven't I proven that you can trust me?”

“Lemme see,” she mused, stroking her chin with the end of the screwdriver. “When was that, exactly? When you bombed Fall's End, twice? When you took Hudson hostage, again? When you kidnapped me and put Nick, a new father, in danger?”

“You went after Joseph,” he growled. “I had to take Hudson, to try and stop you!”

She said mournfully, “I let him live, case you didn't notice.”

“I noticed.”

He straightened, wincing as his head throbbed. He licked his dry lips. “Do you have any water? It's been days since I've drank.”

“I got something you can drink,” she muttered, and put the tools away. They felt unnatural in her hands. She seized the bliss oil on the shelf. John watched her like a hawk, concern etched on his face. She set it back down. Thinking the better of it, she scooped a ladle full of water from the barrel in the other room. She held it to his lips. He drank it down, eyes never leaving her as he did so.

“What IS this place?” He scanned his surroundings, recognizing the bridge, but not the shelter.

She was about to answer him, when Faith's voice giggled from behind the wall: _Back so soon?_

Her hazel eyes went wide as a feline's. _Oh, shit. Not again!_

“John?” she started, trying to keep her cool as a warm, pleasant, carefree sensation sank into her muscles, like a total-body massage in a hot tub. “Just tell me one thing.”

He waited for her question, watching the change in her, curious.

“Is it really raining right now?”

He scoffed rudely. “What kind of question is that, Deputy?”

Thunder boomed like a nuke going off. Oh, that's right. The world was going to end at some point. Feeling paranoid, she picked up the bliss oil, staring at her reflection in the glass.

“What are you doing?” John asked harshly.

“Shut yer trap!” she snapped, strolling close to him, still out of reach of his legs. _Should have hog-tied him. Rookie mistake._

John stared as if she were holding an activated grenade. “Don't touch that!”

“Why? Afraid of a little fun?” she taunted. “Come ooonnn. Even I know you better than that. Surely you've had stronger stuff than _this._ ”

Lightning flashed. He cringed away from her. “You don't know what you're doing. Put that down, or-”

She held the bottle aloft, as he'd once held a bottle of tequila over her head. “Or you'll what? You're in no position to give me orders, John Seed!”

 _Let go, Deputy. Come with me,_ Faith whispered in her ear. A hand, heavy and warm as the real thing, rested on her shoulder, tugging. _Don't fight._

John watched her twitch and heave her shoulder, as if she were pushing at someone. He scanned her wet clothes and hair. Looks like someone went for a little swim in the Henbane? He smiled, smug.

For a second, Dep's anger dropped like coins from a split pocket. Damn, she had missed that smile. Her heart leaped in her throat and sank, an ember in her stomach, warming her to the core.

“Put it down,” he said. “It's of no use to you. You don't know what it's capable of!”

Oh, now she was SURE she wanted to use it on him. She uncapped it, and realized her mistake. The liquid inside vaporized, shooting up her nose. She sneezed and dropped it in shock. The cloudy, white vapor crawled across the floorboards, covering John.

Strangely, he didn't panic, as he'd done when she picked it up. He seemed to inhale it like a fine tobacco smoke. Was this what he wanted the whole time? Distantly, she recalled, at the police academy, her instructor teaching the class about various tactics criminals used when captured. They would lie, invent sob stories, try and manipulate your emotions. Sometimes, they even acted like they wanted one thing, when really they wanted the other.

And, all too eager to intimidate him, she had played right into his hands.

“Oh, no...” she sighed. She sank to her knees. She no longer saw a reason to stand. She felt like laying down, listening to the storm. Feminine laughter rang from the ply-board, joining with the comforting sounds of the rain.

“Deputy.”

She looked up at John. His long legs were relaxed, the knees bent. The tail of his leather overcoat splayed on either side of him, revealing his vest and opened shirt. He tilted his head up at her.

“Come here.”

She found herself staring at that open collar, at the taut, scarred muscle. He seemed to radiate light, as if he were some mythological being the storm had blown in. She had drank from those waters before, and here she found herself, by the river, surrounded by rain, thirsty. She started to crawl closer, but thought the better of it.

She stood and picked up the remainders of the bliss oil. Now that the vapor had cleared, there was plenty of the liquid stuff left at the bottom.

“You don't give the orders now,” she repeated, with less authority than before.

“Get over here. Cut me loose.”

His commanding tone almost sounded like Joseph. The invitation was nearly irresistible. John fell silent, and they watched one another, daring the other to make a move. She pretended to mind him, walking right between his spread legs. Confident, she knelt and straddled his pelvis, making sure not to touch any part of him. She was close enough for him to catch her scent, something he'd sorely missed, a hint of the river in her clothes. Her hands reached for the restraints.

“You know what? Nah. I think I prefer you like this,” she simpered, lowering her hands. John tensed again. But then she sat down, in his lap, gripping his shoulders for support. Feeling her warmth, he relaxed and looked up at her.

“What do you want?” he asked.

 _Wait a sec._ Deputy screwed up her face, trying to remember. There had been questions. Yes, things she needed to know! But the problem was, the foggiest thing, she couldn't recall a single one. They just didn't seem important anymore. Nothing mattered, except the man taking up space beneath her.

Wordlessly, she lowered the straps to her bra, sliding them down her upper arms. John watched, no longer smiling. All serious. She almost laughed. More lightning and thunder, flash and boom, rattling the pipes in the walls.

She started to take off her shirt, and paused. “Did you mean it?”

John's eyes flicked right and left, to each smooth, olive-toned shoulder. His gaze eclipsed hers (Lord, but they were blue; the prettiest eyes she'd ever seen!).

“Mean what?”

“Earlier. When you kissed me.”

He pressed his hips into hers, and she shivered deliciously.

“Yes.”

 _Good enough._ She liked to think she could detect a liar by now. She lifted the rest of it off, throwing the shirt to the floor. Hugging him with her thighs, her fingers found his belt buckle, tracing its design, which suddenly seemed much more intriguing than before. She undid the clasp and slid the belt off his waist, setting it aside. She reached behind her and undid the clasps to her bra, freeing herself in the cool, dewy air.

They stared at each other, listening to the drum of the rain.

Everything hit him more intensely: the sound of the rain was a crescendo, the light on her skin was a cosmic glow, her touch was intoxicating every nerve cell. Her nipples perked in the air, begging for his fingers, his tongue. John's breath snagged. He drank in the sight, remembering their first encounter, down in his bunker. The roles had reversed, and here he was, bound and tied before her. He had fantasized about this moment ever since, and it had tormented his soul, leading to all sorts of punishments, his chest and back covered in fresh welts, cuts.

She lowered her mouth to his, grazing her breasts against his chest, and he felt no guilt, only abounding pleasure. She kissed him deeply, with the same passion he'd shown her at the bottom of the cliffs. He had kissed many women in his lifetime, but she was Forbidden Fruit, and he found her lips the sweetest—the way she teased him with nibbles to his bottom one, how she let him bite hers, soft at first, then harder, causing her to moan and press against him.

He kissed down the groove of her neck, tasting bliss and her scent and river water, reaching as far as he could, stopping shy of her collar bone. He would not be satisfied until he tasted all of her. Dep shut her eyes and tilted her head back.

When she opened them, two things happened. One, John's hands, no longer restrained, slid up her ribs and found the undersides of her breasts, exciting more waves of pleasure. Two, she saw they were no longer in the cramped, dingy shelter under the bridge.

They were seated against the base of a large tree, in a field that sparkled with lights. Mist drifted over the grass, and will o' the wisps hovered and zipped about like fireflies. Oh, dear. Kansas was miles and miles away, and here she was, trapped with this sexy, deceptive Judas, who had come back from the dead like Lazarus. _Ugh, enough Biblical metaphors._

“John? Are you...here...with me?”

“What are you talking about, Deputy?”

He grinned. His smartass question stirred up her temper. She wanted to fuck that stupid smile off his lips. She would punish him yet. He would atone for all that he'd done, beg for her forgiveness.

John grinned at her frustration, and his hands left her breasts, fingers weaving together around the back of her neck. He pulled her toward him and kissed her once more.

“Nevermind,” she gasped, pulling back once, before diving back in for more.

She had forgotten everything. The way his beard scratched her skin, in a rough way that she loved. How hard his body was, under her fingertips, yet somehow supple at the same time, in his restraint. He slid out of his overcoat, pooling it around them, and unbuttoned his vest and shirt, shrugging them off. Tracing his scars with her fingertips, she kissed the biggest one, running her tongue along the lines.

John hissed, pressing his hips into her again, this time she felt his erection rub against her. She had missed that too, was dying to feel him inside again. He drew her head up to his, taking his time. She returned his kisses, the tall grass tickling her exposed skin. Whether he was actually seeing the same things she was, she didn't care anymore.

Placing her hands on his shoulders, she had a mind to ride him out, as she'd intended to in the bunker, before he'd escalated things. This time she wouldn't let him have his way, but she let him think so. Her fingers flew to his jeans, drawing the zipper down. John let her do it with delight, hands relaxed behind his head. His cock stood up in the open air, the round, metal piercing embedded in the tip. She blushed. She had almost forgotten about THAT, too.

She shimmied her Peggie jeans down long, shapely legs. Wiggling free, she threw them aside, and straddled his dick, hovering just above it, the soft nudge of her sex teasing him.

“You think you can just ride me at your pleasure?” he asked, seizing her hips. His hands snaked to her ass, grabbing handfuls of luscious, plump flesh. “You don't know me well. But I know you.”

 _Is that so?_ Dep's nails dug into his shoulders. She smirked, “I told you twice John, you don't give me-Oof!”

He flipped her over, onto her back, and she rubbed against the flat, hard bark of the tree. He seized her wrists, pulling them high above her head, and she detected a familiar pattern. This was starting to turn into Bunker Incident 2.0.

“What was that?” he teased, kissing her neck. Biting it, marking her with bruises. The head of his incessant cock prodded her entrance.

She growled, her lips found his mouth. Her teeth clamped down on his bottom lip. John shuddered in surprise.

Dep turned her head to the side, eyeing him coyly. Without a word, she hooked her legs around his waist, careful not to let his dick get to her promised land. Using a bit of her training, she twisted, hard as she could, the strength in her legs taking him by surprise, and soon she was rolling him onto his back, where she'd originally had him.

She had no idea he was playing along with her little game.

His hands still clutched her wrists. That was all right. Let him think he had some control. This was HER dream. Real or not, she was the goddess here. She ground against him. Slow, rubbing her clit against his shaft. Damn. John sighed with submission. He would never admit it aloud, but it was so nice to be the receiver for once. Still, his sin was Sloth. His conscience wouldn't let him be the lazy one for long.

“Say _please_ ,” she told him.

She didn't need to spend all afternoon torturing him for a word, as he had done to her. “Please.”

Relief flooded them at last, as she lowered down on his cock, filling herself at her own pleasure. Inch by inch, til there was no more flesh visible between. She rode him, setting her own pace, enjoying things. Her tongue flicked across her lower lip once, smug. Greed getting the better of him, John tried buck his hips, but she ripped her wrists free of his hands and slammed his shoulders against the tree, using all her muscle.

Ow. That time, she did surprise him. He laughed at the pain, flashing white teeth.

“No you don't,” she ordered, all business. “Let me work on you.”

“Yes, Deputy.” He shut his mouth.

Pleased with his answer, she rewarded him by speeding up, using the head of his cock to massage her slick walls. She brought her fingers down and rubbed her clit, but John took over for her. God, but she had wanted this. Her belly tightened sweetly. That piercing was gonna pop something way back inside...

She brought everything to a stop, and it was almost torturous. There was sheen to his shaft that hadn't been there before.

“More,” he begged, shutting those baby-blues and leaning back. “Please.”

She sighed and obliged him, thighs rocking against his thighs, arching her back, her tits jostling in his face. While she unabashedly rode the youngest Seed brother against a tree, an odd sensation, like eyes on the back of her head, crept into her naked skin. Without stopping, she glanced at the mist. For a split second, the figure of a man appeared. Shirtless, with sunglasses on his head.

Joseph, in her dreams again! Watching them only a few feet away, he leaned against a tree, his arms folded across his broad chest, one long leg crossed over the other. The mist clouded over, and she couldn't tell if he was still there, or what sort of intentions he had with them. The idea of him watching them fuck wasn't entirely bad. In fact, the idea aroused her like hell, and John's cock slipped and slid with even more ease than before.

“Fuck,” she whimpered. Seriously? She was not having these taboo thoughts about the Father! Not now. “Oh God. He sees us.”

“Don't worry,” John soothed, tugging on one of her arms. He pet her neck, the fingers of his other hand still caressing her, between the legs. “You're home, here. We both are. Don't be ashamed. Never be ashamed.”

He was right. Screw it. Let him watch. Let him join in, if he wanted to. Invite the whole fucking family. She shut her eyes, full and complete, at home with this strange fairy-tale world. She should have known better than to close them. When she looked to see how her work was affecting John, she was back under the bridge, the storm coming down all around them.

And he was out of his restraints! She halted to a stop, his cock still inside. He held the cut rope in his hands. He must have gotten a blade or something. Why hadn't she thought to search his clothes?

“That's cute, Deputy,” he said, the corner of his mouth drawn into a fiendish smile.

She squirmed uncomfortably, color blooming from her chest to her cheekbones. Some of the bliss had worn off, and she considered grabbing the bottle for more. _I wanna go back, damn it._

“What is?” she huffed.

“Your attempt at control. Here, let me teach you about giving.”

He seized her lower back and stabbed upward with his dick. She cried out, grateful the storm was muffling their noise. She arched to make room for him, leaning back, her spine straightening.

“You take my cock so well,” he purred. “Sinner.”

He repeated himself, not as forcefully, but plunging deep each time. If she hadn't been so wet and warmed up, it would have really hurt. Instead she felt a growing ache, mingled with extreme pressure, a shock-wave of heat that radiated out into her womb, her spine, even her fingers tingled. She couldn't get enough.

“Fuck, John, keep going,” she mewed.

While she was distracted, he threw the rope aside and wrapped her in his arms, embracing her torso, her breasts crushed against his chest. She couldn't remember the last time someone had held her with such ferocity. Fully impassioned, with a huff of air from his lips, he drove his dick into her cunt with the same speed she'd used before, her body responding to the rhythm, seeping ecstasy.

He lowered her onto the floor. She wrapped her legs around his buttocks in tight hug. Before either of them knew it, they were tangled together, making love, rough and a bit raw, but much closer than he dared get to any of the cult's women. He seized a handful of her hair, tugging at the roots in his fevered thrusting. The ply-board was scraping Deputy's back, over and over, but she didn't give it much thought.

“You think you're good enough for my family?” he whispered in her ear.

What is he talking about? Had he had the same lewd notions as her, in the bliss? Did he know how she secretly felt about him and his brothers?

“Yes,” she moaned.

At her admission, he buried his face in her neck again, pushing home harder. She clung to him, raking her nails into the undulating muscles of his back. He put his palms flat to the floor, on either side of her head, and lifted himself, his lower half still rising and falling. He was watching the way her tits bounced with each thrust. She looked up into his eyes, but a flash of lightning caused her to blink.

When her vision came back, he lifted a hand and pressed down, on her tattoo, compressing her to the floor.

“You confessed, but you must atone,” he breathed. “Will you? Will you reject them, and join us?”

“Yes, John,” she sighed freely, her inhibitions running wild. John stopped, resting between her thighs, their slick abdomens touching. He had amazing abs; a crying shame they were restrained by his vest most of the time. Guess he didn't want to copy Joseph's look.

He remained frozen, torn about something. “Do you mean it, or are you going to run away again?”

“I mean it!” she wailed. She would have agreed to sell her soul right then, had he propositioned her. “Don't stop!”

Her begging struck all the right cords in him. He took her on the floor, each wrapped up in the other's limbs. She felt safe in the cage of him, never wanting it to end. He exhaled hotly against her skin, below her ear, and she yanked on his hair, her toes curling. Her clit was radiating a bliss of its own, and she shook all over. John hitched forward suddenly, groaning into her, and slowed down. She opened completely, welcoming all of his hot cum with a low, keening moan.

He kissed her forehead several times, then brought his against hers, their noses touching. “You know what I think?”

“What?” She thought it was strange, having pillow talk with this man. Christ, he hadn't even pulled out of her yet. But she wasn't complaining.

“I think you're just a poor, Southern girl, who wants too much from the world,” he told her. “And when the world wants her back, she runs.”

 _POOR? Some of us couldn't afford fancy law school and degrees,_ she thought. _Mr. Big Shot Lawyer. Look at where you're at now! Under a damned bridge with a heathen._

“I'm richer than you think,” was all she mumbled, nodding off. She was still pretty stoned, but it sounded like the right thing to say.

In response, he withdrew, and pulled her tighter against him, the sleeping bag underneath them. He balled his jacket up and used it as a pillow. She hadn't been sleeping well lately, but there, in that random prepper stash, with her head resting against John's sin, she slept more deeply than she had in years...

 

She woke up alone, but heard him in the other room. The metal clink of a grappling hook told of his intentions. She shot up, not bothering with clothes, and searched for something to bind him with.

 _Oh my God._ Last night. Shit! She hadn't even had the chance to ask him anything!

She found more rope. That would have to do. Seizing it, she darted into the next room, to find John at the shelter ledge, about to rappel down the side of the bridge.

“The hell are you going?” she cried.

He was fully dressed, and at the sight of her running, naked as a newborn, he couldn't help but smile. He got a glimpse of the rage in her face, and thought the better.

He reached into his coat, taking out Jess Black's knife. He'd lifted it off the floor of the statue while Deputy was distracted, stowing it in a hidden pocket. A man had to be careful, when the world was about to end.

“Stay away.”

She froze, aware of her nakedness. She glared at him, uncaring if every goddamned Peggie in the county saw. Her hand rested on her hip, the other dangling the rope at her side.

Scoffing, incredulous, she asked, “So you're just gonna leave? Fuck n' run, is that it?”

He shrugged. “Like you did to me? I never did get my key back.”

Her lips shut, regretting the words. Not so long ago, she had run out on him, after a very similar encounter. Thus, the pot that would call the kettle black better shut its lid.

“Stick around,” she suggested. She tried being nice: “John...I need to ask you some things. Please.”

He was looking at her like he wanted to, but he took another step toward the ledge.

“I don't think so. Our little bliss holiday is over,” John said. “It's been fun, but now I've got a whole lot of work and acts of contrition ahead of me, thanks to you.”

 _Sure, blame it on the woman._ She rolled her eyes. “What about the things you said? All that crap about joining your family?”

Of course, she didn't REALLY want join them. She inched closer, trying to stall him, get him back in restraints. She still had questions. What did he and Joseph know about her ex-partner, for instance? Was the world really about to fucking end? How much of her past had they pried into?

Evidently, enough. Coming from John the Sadist, his next reply cut her to the bone:

“You're not a good person.”

Her eyes grew hot, but the tears seemed to burn up in her anger. “Then why the hell did you rescue me?”

He ignored her, preaching like he was in one of his propaganda videos: “You can still be forgiven. It's not my call to make, and your heart has to be right with God. A lot more than THAT should be etched into your skin.”

He pointed to her 'Wrath' tattoo.

“Farewell, Deputy.”

Gnashing her teeth like a tiger, she lunged, making a grab for him, but he twisted away, leaping from the shelter, not bothering with the ropes. His coat flapped up by his ears, body straightening as he plummeted, before neatly splashing into the water. Seeing red, she clawed for the ropes, but a boat manned by five of John's own men pulled up first.

 _Everyone wants him dead yesterday, and these assholes just show up out of nowhere?_ she wondered. She'd been right. John was full of surprises.

She dove behind the wall, peeking her head out. The cultists helped him into their boat, water running off his clothes. With a muffled roar, the boat sped off, churning up the rain-swollen waters. The drought was over, and Holland county would survive another summer—if the world didn't end, that is.

John stood in the sun, holding his hand over his eyes, watching her recede. He'd be a liar if he hadn't thought about staying, but he knew his place in Joseph's plan. In time, the she would have to learn hers. He hoped her lesson wouldn't be as painful as his had been.

He turned around, said something to the Peggie manning the wheel, and the boat shrank on the horizon, leaving the Deputy alone, to do her own acts of contrition.

-END

 


End file.
